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FLORENCE O’NEILL, 

THE ROSE OF ST. GERMAINS; 


OR, 

THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 



BALTIMORE: 

KELLY, riET AND COMPANY, 
NOi 174 Baltimore Street, 

J873, 



i 


Entered, according to an Act of Congress, in the 3 'ear 1871, by 
KELLY, PIET AND COMPANY. 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



:nAPTER. Page. 

I. — St. Germains 1 

II. — Le Grand Monarque — The King’s Promise... 8 

III. — Merville Grange IG 

IV. — True to Principle , 27 

V. — The Conspiracy 35 

VI. — Sarsfield, Lord Lucan 45 

VII. — The Baronet’s Presentation 63 

VIII. — (Continued.) 61 

IX. — (Continued.) 65 

X, — (Continued.) 72 

XI. — A Secession 79 

XII. — A Gilded Prison 82 

XIII. — The Captive 88 

XIV. — Detection 93 

XV. — Chaellot — The Exiles 99 

XVI. — Without IIope 104 

XVII. — Condemned 107 

XVIII. — Lord Preston’s KkVelations 114 

XIX. — The Condemned Cell 120 

XX. — The Queen’s Escape. 129 

XXI. — Thorns in the Diadem....*. 137 

XXII. — The Cock-Pit ; or, TIie Home of the Princess 

Anne 143 

XXIII. — The Duke of Tyrconnell, and Sarsfield, 

Lord Lucan 147 

XXIV. — The Besieged City* 151 

XXV. — The MiNiATUREii... 155 

XXVI.— The Shadow of Yhe Grave 158 

XXVII. — Letters for St. Germains 172 

XXVIII. — Grace Wilmoths Story 190 

XXIX. — Letters from St. Germains 209 

XXX. — Alone with Kecords of Other Days 214 


XXXI.— The King’s Pledge Kedeemed— St. Germains, 227 







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Florence O’Neill; 

OR, 

Tlic Siege of Ijinaerick. 


CIIAl’TKR 1. 



BT. GERMAINS. 

j ENTLY^ fell the evening eliadows over the fer- 
tile valley of the Seine, as on the close of a 
lovely (lay in August, in tho year 1690, 
the sun set behind tho western hills, shedding a 
deep roseate tint on tho richly wooded prospect, which 
extended far and wide around tho Chateau of St. Germains, 
tho retreat of one of tho most unfortunate of RnglisU mon- 
archs, tho exiled James Stuart, and his good and beautiful 
queen, Mary Beatrice of Modena. Situated on a gentle 
eminence, embosomed amidst the umbrageous branches of 
noble forest trees, arose in all its grandeur tho kingly resi- 
dence which the generosity of le Grand Monarqm, tho cour- 
teous Louis of France, had placed at the disposal of tho 
unfortunate James ; and the gorgeous rays of that early 
autumn sunset now play upon its walls, and penetrate 
within tho cabinet of the ex-king, throwing a ruddy tinge 
on its antique paintings of dark green and gold, and rich 
and quaintly carved cornices, and shed a halo of light over 
tho little group there assembled. 




FLOUI:^X’E o’neili.; ok, 


The king is seated at a small table, bis head resting on 
his hand, his countenance wears the traces of much mental 
anxiety, for ho suffers bitterly in the sorrows and privations 
of those faithful followers who have given up all for him, 
and he listens sadly and silently to the conversation of two 
ladies now closeted in the roycfl cabinet. In the embrasures 
of a window stands one, tall of stature and delicately 
formed, and we fail not to recognise, when wo look on that 
delicately oval countenance, with its complexion of exquisite 
fairness, full black eyes, softened by their long silken 
lashes, and tresses of the same raven hue, the beautiful 
Mary of Modena. Beside the queen stands a maiden of 
some twenty-three years old ; she has many personal 
charms, but the beauty of Florence O’Neill, the orphan 
protege of the queen, in no way resembles that of her royal 
mistress. 

Florence was but little above the middle height ; she w^is 
slender of form aud fair of complexion, and her deep, violet 
eyes, shaded by long brown lashes, ai-c bathed in tears. 
Softly fall the sun’s last rays on the golden tresses of the 
girl, lending a still brighter tint to that richest of woman’s 
ornaments, which, despite the strict rules prescribed by 
fashion, Florence, like her royal mistress, often suffered, 
when in the privacy of home, to fall in its rich luxuriance 
over her shoulders, instead of conforming to the odious 
practice, then prevalent, of forming a stiff and powdered 
pyramid of those tresses which Nature surely never meant 
to be so ill used. 

“Nay, then, cheer up, ma mignonne,’^ exclaimed the 
queen, “and remember this Reginald, who was, you say, 
the playmate of your childhood, can be no fit mate for you. 
Ills family, up to the time of the Oommonwcalth, were 
faithful to the royal cause, then, shame upon them, they 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


3 


abjured their faith, were false to God and to their king, and 
ever sinee have paid but poor allegiance to the Stuart rule ; 
be true to yourself, Florence, and grieve no more for one 
who has openly joined the forces of the false William of 
Orange.” 

“ My royal mistress,” replied Florence, “ it were wrong 
in me to obtrude my personal griefs in the presence of your 
majesties, but you will not chide me, when I tell you that 
to Sir Reginald St. John I owe my life ; not merely do I 
feel an interest in him because we grew up children to- 
gether in my early Irish home, but also because, at the immi- 
nent peril of his own life, he rushed to save me when I had 
lost all power to help myself ; my horse had taken fright; I 
had given myself up for lost, for it wound its way along the 
brink of a precipice ; a moment more, and I must have been 
hurled into the chasm beneath, had he not, at the risk of his 
own life, and at the cost of a broken arm, thrown himself in 
the animal’s way, and saved me from a frightful death. Ah ! 
indeed,” she continued, “ I cannot but feel the deepest 
friendship for Sir Reginald, his is such a noble soul, per- 
verted, alas ! by early associations, reared by a fanatical 
parent, still I am sure the day will come when he will bear 
a sword in the right cause, return to the faith of his fathers, 
and .... 

“ Nonsense, Florence,” exclaimed the king, impatiently, 
“ do not speak so tenderly of one who, as the letter you 
have received informs you, is one of the favorites of my 
traitorous and perjured nephew, and if what report says be 
true, is always with him; you, the daughter of such afaith- 
ful veteran as your father was, should not waste a tliought 
upon him ; he is a renegade to his faith, and a traitor to his 
king. Rut do not look so sad, my child,” added James, 
rising and placing his hand tenderly on her head, for 


4 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


Florence knelt as the king approached her, ‘ ‘ you must 
learn to he more of a heroine, and he more courageous 
under the trials that may await you.” 

As the king spoke he left the cabinet, and the queen, 
addressing Florence, said ; 

“ As your uncle wishes you to spend some short time in 
England, I shall place you under the care of a trusty 
adherent of ours, who is about to leave St. Germains, and I 
shall look for your return before the winter be far 
advanced.” Then ringing a small silver bell, which stood 
beside her, the queen bid the attendant who answered the 
summons tell Master Ashton that she wished to speak to him 
immediately. 

Tall and well formed, with a pleasing countenance, was 
the young Englishman who, a few moments later, entered 
the cabinet. Devoted to the exiled family, he was about to 
undertake a most important and perilous mission. With 
deep reverence he approached the queen, who said : 

“The king is about to entrust you, my good Ashton, 
with a delicate and dangerous mission. He will meet you 
hero in the morning, and place in your care certain papers, 
to which fictitious names arc attached. You will sec they 
are safely delivered to those persons for whom you will be 
told they are intended. I also entrust to your guardian- 
ship this young lady, Florence O’Neill, and you will con- 
duct her in safety to the home of her maternal uncle. Sir 
Charles de Gray. But tell me, Ashton, have you heard of 
the repulse that tlie false William of Orange has met with 
at Limerick ? ” 

“ No, your majesty,” said Ashton ; this is, indeed, good 
news.” 

“We hear, then,” said the queen, “that the gallant 
Sarsficld, with a body of dragoons, passed the Shannon in 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


5 


the middle of the night, routed the troops that guarded the 
artillery of our false-hearted son-in-law, disabled the can- 
non, destroyed the wagons and ammunition, and safely 
retraced his steps to Limerick. The siege has been vigor- 
ously carried, and our loyal Irish subjects have courageously 
defended their city, and,” added the queen, with a flushed 
and animated countenance, “our enehiies have met with 
such a warm reception that, it is said, 1,200 men have 
fallen, and William of Orange has been glad to decamp, 
marching on towards Clonmel, and we have it on good 
authority that he meditates a speedy return to England. 
So, Ashton, there is reason for us to look upon matters more 
hopefully. Many of our warmest friends have risen 
within the last few weeks throughout England and Ireland ; 
some there are also, even within the traitor’s camp, whose 
hearts are rightfully disposed, and it is to some three or four 
of these persons, whose names the king will communicate to 
you, that you must see on your arrival in London. And 
now, my good friend, I warn you that all the skill and dis- 
cretion which we know you to possess must bo called in 
action on your arrival at the spot in which his majesty’s 
false daughter holds her court. You have often earnestly 
begged the king to tax your skill in his services : tell me 
candidly, Ashton, dare you, now that the time has come in 
which he may put your talents to account, exert them in his 
cause, for, oh, my good Ashton,” continued Mary Beatrice, 
inexpressible sadness in the tones of her voice, and tears 
gathering in her eyes, “ I must not hide from you that the 
mission we trust you with is replete with difliculty and 
peril.” 

“Do not fear mo, my royal mistress,” said Ashton, 
proudly drawing himself up as ho spoke, “I am only 
rejoiced that the time has at last come in which I can prove 

IHc 


6 


FLORENCE o’nEILL j OR, 


uiy dcvotiou to the royal cause by deeds as well as words. 
At last, then, there is an end to inaction, and the day may 
soon arrive,” he continued, laying his hand on his sword, 
“when my good right arm may wield this blade in his 
majesty’s services. 1 am ready, if need be, to shed my 
blood in defence of his rights.” 

“ Well, then, good Ashton,” replied the queen, “ remem- 
ber my words. Conduct yourself with prudence, for you arc 
about to go near the court of Mary, the daughter, as our 
Scottish subjects, in the full bitterness of their satire, 
denominated the false Mary ; near her there must be much 
of danger, and it behooves you to be wary and cautious. I 
shall not be present, my trusty friend, at your interview 
with the king, so I may probably not see you again, for we 
wish you to commence your journey speedily, and remem- 
ber that very early in the winter we expect to sec you back, 
accompanied by my young friend, Florence O’Neill.” 

“ Ah! madam,” said the young man, bending his knee, 
“rest assured 1 will carefully execute my mission, and some 
weeks before the festival of Christmas be celebrated at St. 
Germains hope to apprize your majesties of a successful ris- 
ing, and conduct Miss O’Neill in safety back to her royal 
mistress.” 

As Ashton spoke he left the cabinet, and the queen, with 
the air of one who is very weary and ill at ease, threw her- 
self on the chair which James had occupied, and passing 
her hands caressingly over the golden locks of her favorite, 
who sat on a low stool at her feet, she murmured, as if 
unconsciously : 

“Yes, we have heard good news, and yet a dread of 
approaching evil sits heavy at my heart. What if the 
undutiful Mary and the traitor William triumph in the end ? 
What if in these risings the blood of good and brave and 
noble men be shed for us, and shed in Vain.” 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


7 


“Nay, madam, do not suffer such fears to harass your 
mind. May not the good news your majesties have heard 
from Ireland prelude some glorious and effective rising for 
the royal cause ? ” 

“True, Florence,” replied the queen; “ God knows I 
try to keep up my spirits.” Yet the conduct of Mary 
Beatrice belied her words, for with somewhat of dismay, 
she felt, one after another, hot tears falling on her neck as 
her mistress spoke; indeed, it is well known that the 
beautiful and unfortunate Mary of Modena was the veriest 
creature of impulse. It was utterly beyond her power to 
disguise her feelings, and at no time had she been a match 
in any way for the unscrupulous and deceitful daughters of 
James. 

Throwing herself on her knees beside the queen, and 
respectfully raising her hand to her lips, Florence earnestly 
besought her to keep up her spirits, and become calm and 
hopeful. It was a scene worthy of the painter’s art. The 
moon had long risen, and its silvery rays, penetrating into 
every nook and corner of the cabinet, revealed distinctly 
the figures of one of the most unfortunate of queens and her 
kneeling p'otegcc. Mary Beatrice bent her head forwaid 
and imprinted a kiss on the forehead of her favorite. With, 
a violent effort, striving to conquer her emotion, then, ris- 
ing, she turned to one of the windows,' which lay buried in 
a deep recess. 

Bathed in a flood of silvery light lay the valley of the 
Seine. At the base of the lofty hill, on which the Chateau 
of St. Germains rose in all its grandeur, the scene was 
sublimely beautiful, as in the bright moonlight of the sum- 
mer night each copse, and glen, and thicket in the vale 
beneath was revealed to view, whilst in the distance might 
be descried the towers of St. Denis, frowning, as it were, 
over the quiet, peaceful scene beneath. 


8 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL; OE, 


Mary Beatrice for some moments stood musingly gazing 
on the rich country, spread out like a map beneath the 
chateau, and her thoughts, spite of herself, recurred to the 
doubtful future. 

Was it merely a vague fear of approaching evil, or had 
the veil which conceals the future from our gaze been for a 
moment raised before her eyes, for the ruin of her faithful 
Ashton, and the downfall of her dearest hopes^ had passed 
as in a vision before the eyes of Mary of Modena ; yet, 
striving to banish from her mind the unpleasant impression 
it had received, she dismissed Florence, saying, in a hope- 
ful tone : 

“Now, good night, Florence, and forget not to pray 
before going to rest for the success of our enterprise.” 
Then, ringing the bell, she summoned her attendant, and 
sought the king, disguising her uneasiness beneath a smil- 
ing countenance. 


CHAPTER II. 



LE GRAND MONARQUE — THE KINO’s PROMISE. 

the morrow, Florence received an order to 
accompany the queen to Marly, at which 
place Louis XIV at that time held his Court, 
in fact, it was to this most gallant of mon- 
archs that she owed the appellation of the Rose of St. 
Germains, by which name she was generally known at 
the French Court. The courteous king was indeed never 
insensible to the charms of the softer sex, and the dclicaio 
beauty of the Irish maiden, whom we have omitted to men- 
tion was distantly related to the brave Tyrconnell, had not 
failed to make a due impression on the heart of Le Grand 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


9 


Monarque. The mother of the fair Florence was an English 
lady by birth, had married one of the ancient race of the 
O’Neill’s, and the greater part of the girl’s early life had 
been spent in her father’s native land, till some time after 
his death, which occurred when fighting in the French army 
under Turenne. Sir Patrick O’Neill had been the bosom 
friend of the brave Marshal; and thus it was that when 
Louis beheld Florence for the first time at the little Court 
of St. Germains, and her spoken of as the daughter of a 
deceased friend of his favorite Turenne, he immediately 
became interested in her welfare. Florence had barely 
completed her fifth year when her father fell, whilst fighting 
valiantly beside the Marshal ; his lady, a woman of great 
personal attractions and considerable merit, had been in 
early youth the friend of Ann Hyde, Duchess of York, and 
some eight years after her husband’s death she repaired to 
London, and received a post in the household of the then 
Duchess Mary of Modena, who soon looked upon Lady 
O’Neill in the light of a favored friend : the health of the 
latter, however, soon began to decline, and she retired 
again into the solitude she so deeply loved, passing the 
greater part of her time in religious exercises, and in the 
education of her daughter of whom she was passionately 
fond, and died before Florence had attained her fifteenth 
year. 

Somewhat like herself, impulsive and affectionate, the 
heart of Mary of Modena turned instinctively to this 
orphan girl, whom she at once adopted, and whoso engaging 
manners and warmth of disposition, endeared her to all in 
the noble circle in which she lived, till she became the orna- 
ment and admiration of the court. Many suitors, too, had 
offered themselves for the hand of the fair descendant of 
the O'Neills, but IMary Beatrice would not sway the feelings 


10 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


of her protegh, so far as to extort a forced compliance with 
a royal command, though both herself and the king were 
predetermined never to give their consent to her union with 
Keginald St. John, with whom she had grown up in the 
days of her mother’s early widowhood. 

Indeed, to such an union Florence never could expect her 
royal protectors to agree, for St. John was a cousin of tlirt 
stern upholder of the Commonwealth, who had been with 
Vane, Lambert, and others, actively engaged in sowing the 
seeds of discord and rebellion against monarchy : the present 
head of the family, too, was a Protestant, and disaffected 
towards the exiled James ; in fact, Florence could not urge 
a single point in his favor, and was obliged to own to her- 
self that these were very sufficient reasons why her royal 
protectors should refuse to sanction her union with Reginald 
St. John. 

But let us return to the story from which I have so long 
wandered, and accompany the royal party on their way to 
Marly. 

It was very early when they set forth, the autumn morn- 
ing one of the fairest, and its dews had been quickly dried 
up by the first rays of the sun which shone cheerily on the 
chateau, and kissed away its last pearly drops as they rested 
on each blade of grass and humble floweret in the valley 
beneath. Despite the misfortunes of the royal pair, there 
were happy moments still for them to enjoy, and the beauty 
of the day lent its aid on this occasion to banish from their 
minds, for awhile, the thoughts of their present overwhelm- 
ing anxieties. 

Blithely they rode onward with but few attendants in 
their train, and ere the day was far advanced they reached 
the royal retreat of Marly ; the approach to this villa palace 
was by a noble avcnxxe of trees, the park extending to that 


THE SIEGE OE LIMEIUCK. 


11 


of Versailles; in its tasteful gardens were iiiiniaturo lakes 
and graceful fountains, their marble basins filled with gold 
fish, and glistening with the floating lotus. 

Tho royal party now approached the principal part of the 
edifice, a spacious, square detached pavilion, near which six 
smaller ones were grouped around ; light and graceful, 
indeed, was tho construetion of tho entire building supported 
by Corinthian oolumns, between which were paintings a 
fresco. Each of the four sides of tho pavilion was crowned 
Ity a portico ; and now ascending to tho terrace, James and 
his train entered one of the four vestibules which served to 
give ingress to as many suites of apartments on tho ground 
floor, reserved for Louis and the princes of the blood, all 
of which communicated with the grand saloon, octagonal 
in its form, having four fire places supported by Ionic pil- 
lars, over which were painted figures representing the 
seasons. Many spacious windows, with gilded balconies and 
oriels, around which were grouped baskets of flowers sup- 
ported by Cupids, lighted up this most gorgeous apartment. 

Though in about his fiftieth year, in the time of which 
we write, Louis Quatorze had certainly not lost one iota of 
that noble gracefulness of mien for which he was so distin- 
guished, his eagle eye was bright as in his youth, and tho 
exquisite simplicity of his attire only added to the elegance 
of his general demeanor. 

He was habited, as was most frequently the case, in a 
garment of black velvet, relieved by a slight gold embroidery, 
and fastened by a single gold button ; his under vest was, 
however, of crimson stuff, elegantly embroidered, but not 
one single ring or any jewel whatsoever adorned the person 
of the king, save in his shoe and knee-buckles. Unlike all the 
former kings of France, he wore his blue ribbon beneath his 
vest save when on state occasions it was suffered to hang at 


12 


FLOllENCE o’nEILL; Oil, 


full length, embroidered with preelous stones, estimated 
at the immense value of eight millions of money. 

Saluting the little party with the dignified and graceful 
courtesy which so well became him, the handsomest and 
most majestic prince of his time welcomed to Marly James 
and Mary Ucatricc, then turning to Florence, who as one of 
her ladies, was privileged to accompany her, he said : 
“ Welcoa.o too, to Marly, fair Rose of St. Germains, and I 
assure you, young lady, if your cousin James and his royal 
spouso do not soon find you a husband, I will myself look 
after your interests, nay, do not blush, for I vow you shall 
be my pmv'yce unless your name of O’Neill, time-honored 
as it may be, be not quickly changed for another, for remem- 
ber I never forget your father was the intimate friend of my 
brave Turenne, and it would please me to see you the wife 
of some noble of my own Court.” 

I Blushing deeply, the timid Florence stammered out a few 
words -of grateful acknowledgment, intimating at the same 
time that she had no desire at present to change her state, 
whilst Mary Beatrice aware of the interest the courtly mon- 
arch really felt for Florence, inwardly resolved that, if pos- 
sible, she should not cross his path again ; she had, in fact, 
no desire to see the innocent and pure-minded Florence 
become the protegee of a king whose unbounded admiration 
of the female sex, often led him to commit the grossest 
errors and the gravest faults. 

After a while Louis and James retired, the latter wishful 
to lay open to the French king his views and intentions, 
making him cognizant of the departure of Ashton to 
England and confiding to the monarch the names of several 
distinguished persons in England, who were zealously inter- 
esting themselves in his service. But the failure of the late 
attempt at the Boyne had weakened the hopes of Louis as 


TUE SIEGE OF LIMEIilCK. 


13 


to the restoration of the unfortunate James. Had he been 
able to have received the decisive stroke at the Boyne some 
few weeks longer, the French fleet would have become masters 
of St. George’s Channel, and could either have conveyed him- 
self and his array to England, or have prevented aid from 
coming to AYilliam ; the unfortunate arc sure to meet with cen- 
sure, and whilst many blamed James for hazarding too much, 
others condemned him for leaving Ireland too soon. By the 
earnest desire of the queen, Tyrconnell had urged this hasty 
retreat, she having entreated him at any cost to save the 
king’s person, that the truly unfortunate James was destined 
a victim of patience by Providence, his friends exercising 
him equally with his enemies. 

Louis was dissatisfied with the line of conduct he had 
pursued, and probably at the instigation of his ministers he 
declined to aid another expedition. 

James had keenly felt the censures which had been passed 
upon him ; but hope still led him on, and his queen needed no 
extraneous aid save the prudence and discretion of Ashton, 
a tried and faithful servant devoted to the interests of the 
Steuart race, to carry communications from herself and 
James to the Bishop of Ely, Lord Preston, the Earl of 
Clarendon and others who were zealously stirring to bring 
about the restoration. Thus it was, that painful as was the 
commencement of his conference with Louis, his sanguine 
nature did not yield, and when it was concluded, and accom- 
panied by the French king, he sought Mary Beatrice, who 
with her attendants wandered a while in the shady groves of 
j\Iarly, no trace of discomfiture was visible on his coun- 
tenance. 

Nevertheless Louis was truly noble and generous, his 
kingly nature had developed itself in his dealings with the 
exiled monarch, whom he would have rejoiced to have 
2 


14 


FLOKENCE o’nEIEE ; OK, 


placed again on tho throne, now usurped by the most worth- 
less of daughters and ungrateful of nephews. 

Heavy indeed wero the misfortunes with which our second 
James was visited : ho might have used with truth the lan- 
guage of our great poet, and exclaimed with King Lear: 
“ How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thanldess 
child:' 

Tho cool and hardened cruelty of Mary, his most favored 
daughter, stung him to the quick, for she heartlessly appro- 
priated to herself the property of her step-mother, amongst 
other things a costly cabinet of silver fillagreo, and denied 
even her father’s request for his clothes and personal prop- 
erty, a request which, with unparalleled barbarity, the 
ungrateful Mary refused to comply with. Evelyn relates 
that she entered Whitehall joyful as if bidden to a wedding 
feast. Transported with joy, she ran into tho closets and 
examined tho beds, her coarse and unfeeling levity revolt- 
ing tho minds even of Lishop Bennett and Lady Churchill, 
and hurrying to take into her iron grasp the goods which 
had fallen into her possession, 

James had heard, too, that she had ordered that the 
standards and other spoils taken from him at the Boyne be 
carried in procession and hung in St. James Chapel. 

Wliatcvcr may have been his faults, he had been to both 
his daughters tho most indulgent of fathers ; of their 
unparalleled wickedness and abandonment of filial duty, no 
doubt can remain on the minds of posterity. 

But return we to our story. Not without an end in view 
had James sought Louis on tho occasion we have spoken of, 
but he was confident in his expectations of a successful 
rising, through tho unceasing efforts of his friends in Eng- 
land, and so well did he disguise his discomfiture at the 
result of his interview with tho French king, that Mary 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


15 


Beatrice vainly tried to read in his countenance whether 
there was any further aid to be expected for the carrying 
out of their plans. 

One short hour more was passed in the enchanting spot 
which the luxurious monarch had chosen for his retreat 
when he wished for such solitude as in his high position ho 
could obtain. A rural fke had but recently been given, 
and as no cost was ever spared, trees of considerable size 
had been transported hither from the forests of Fontaine- 
bleau and Compiegne, in order to add, by the rich beauty 
and luxuriance of their foliage, to the pleasantness of the 
scene, and a very little later to fade away and give place to 
others. 

This was the first time Florence had visited Marly, and 
the kingly Louis, who, out of affectionate memory for the 
good Marshal Turenne, bestowed upon her so much notice, 
bade her remember that she would ever find a friend in him, 
adding, ere he bade adieu to the royal exiles, with somewhat 
of emotion, and an unusual moistening in his eye : “ The 
father of the fair O’Neill fell by the side of my brave 
Turenne, so bear in mind that if, at any future time, 
trouble should fall upon you, or you should require some 
favor granted, which my brother and sister of England may 
not have it in their power to confer, then forget not that in 
that hour of need or distress you have permission to seek 
the aid of Louis of France.” 

With reverent gratitude, for she thought she might in 
some way aid her royal mistress through the monarch, 
Florence raised to her lips the hand of le Grand 3Ionarque, 
and with deep emotion, faltering out her thanks, fell into 
the little train which had accompanied the royal exiles from 
St. Germains, and who, having made their adieus to King 
Louis, prepared to return thither. 


IG 


FLORENCE O’nEILL ; OR, 


CIIAPTEK III. 

MERVILLE GRANGE. 

OWARDS the close of a drear October even- 
ing two travellers, spent with a long day’s 
toilsome journey, wended their way across a 
fertile tract of land on the borders of Glouces- 
tershire. The sky was of that heavy leaden hue which 
betokens a storm, and hollow gusts of wind ever anon swept 
across their path, carrying with them clouds of dust, while 
the sere and withered leaves whirled in circling eddies 
beneath the hoofs of the jaded beasts, who had not, as yet, 
finished a hard day’s work. 

The closing in of the late autumn day was, indeed, wild 
and black enough to authorize the far from causeless fears 
entertained by the travellers. At the time of which we 
write, when not only reckless bands were well known to 
infest the highway, but also some marauding party likely 
to bo encountered on the road, joined to the fearful state of 
the weather, the prospect of passing a night on the wilds of 
Gloucestershire was far from pleasing, should the travellers 
not reach speedily the place of their destination. The 
younger of the two might, perhaps, have numbered some 
thirty years. His dress, a garment of simple black velvet, 
was made in some sort after the fashion of the day, though, 
at the same time, it retained, somewhat carefully, the exces- 
sive simplicity which formed so prominent a character, even 
in the outward garb, of the Puritans of old and their imme- 
diate descendants, betokened him, together with a certain 
air of nobleness which marked his demeanor, to have come 
of gentle blood. 

His companion, though with a form unbent with age. 



TUE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


17 


might, perhaps, have seen nearly eighty winters ; his hair, 
white as silver, was combed over his forehead, and the 
naturally morose expression of his features now wore a 
sterner expression than usual, from the very fact that his 
creature comforts had been most cruelly interfered with. 
This aged man was dressed in a suit of sober brown cloth ; 
the style of his attire, and his general sanctified demeanor 
revealing, without a doubt, the fact that Joshua Benson, 
whose appellation, in his early days, was, “ Firm in Faith,'’ 
was really one of the veritable Puritans of the generation 
now rapidly passing away. 

Sundry exclamations of impatience now broke forth from 
Benson, as his companion. Sir B.eginald St. John, suffered 
his horse to trot slowly on, while he took a brief survey of 
the country around him, and wiped away the drops of per^ 
spiration Avhich had gathered on his brow, for he had rid- 
den long and rapidly. 

‘ ‘ It is a great shame to drag my old bones so far,” burst 
forth the testy old man. ‘ ‘ I wonder why you did not put 
up at the White Bear ; it was a comfortable inn, good 
enough for jaded man and beast. I shall wonder if the Lord 
does not punish us for running into danger, ‘ for, verily, 
those who love the danger shall perish in it.’ Moreover, I 
have no liking for the place you are going to. I, Firm in 
Faith Benson, as I used to be called in the good old times, 
do not like even to enter the house of an ungodly man like 
this papist, Be Gray.” 

“ Nonsense, Benson,” replied Sir Reginald, impatiently, 
notwithstanding the respect he still felt for his former pre- 
ceptor ; “have I not already told you that I bear Sir 
Charles a letter from the king V He has never allied him- 
self to those disaffected to the present government, but 
always maintained a strictly neutral position. Sir Charles 
2 * 


18 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR; 


is immensely rich ; he has broad lands in this county of 
Gloucestershire and in the wilds of Cumberland, and if wo 
can but win him over to join the forces of King William, he 
will bring many others with him, and may well afford to 
aid our royal master with purse as well as counsel, and 
instruct him of much that he ought to know, if all report 
says be true.” 

“ May be as you say,” replied the old man, copying the 
example of his companion, who set spurs to his horse and 
galloped briskly onwards. “May be so,” he continued, in 
a tone inaudible to his companion, who was again buried in 
thought; “but if I had you again in my power, young 
man, as I had when you were a boy, the Lord knoweth you 
should never have dared drag me on as you have done this 
cold, bleak night. I could almost strike you now as in old 
times,” he continued, his always thin, compressed lips more 
compressed than usual, whilst his hand nervously clutched 
the bridle of his horse. “ If I had power over you now, I 
would soon see if you should take me to the house of this 
Papist, but I have borne the Lord’s yoke from my youth, 
and though it is hard the once submissive lad should now be 
my master, I may live to seo him a more worthy disciple 
yet.” 

At this moment a sharp turn in the road brought them to 
a fence, enclosing what, in the fading light of the October 
evening, rendered still more dim by the thick mist that was 
now falling, seemed to be a thickly wooded park, whilst 
between the branches of the fine beech and chesnuts, which 
lined the avenue, appeared the red brick walls, with copings 
of freestone, of a fine old mansion, built probably about the 
Elizabethan era. 

An exclamation of gratified surprise burst from the lips 
of Sir Reginald, as, allowing the reins of his horse to fall 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


19 


over its node, he let it eanter slowly up the avenue wliich . 
led to the principal entrance of the mansion, whilst Benson, 
with sundry exclamations of impatience, followed, moodily, 
behind his companion, 

“At the Granfje at last, then,” said Reginald, “for 
surely this must be Merville, the place I have often heard 
Lady O’Neill describe, as that in which she spent some 
time of her widowhood. Ah, yes,” he added, as his horse 
trotted slowly on, “the description closely tallies, and, 
after all, I have reached the end of my journey sooner than 
I expected. There is the noble flight of steps I heard her 
speak of, with a spacious portico opening to the entrance 
hall, and, if I do not mistake, the ruddy, glaring light 
which streams from those narrow windows proceeds from an 
apartment in which the warmth and refreshment I sorely 
need may be obtained.” 

As he finished his soliloquy ho found himself at the bottom 
of the steps leading to the grand entrance of the mansion, 
and, dismounting, he rang the heavy bell, the summons 
being at once answered by the hall porter. 

It was in the power of Sir Reginald to procure a speedy 
audience of the baronet at whose mansion he had intro- 
duced himself, by means of a sealed packet which he placed 
in the hands of the servant, and a moment later he found 
himself seated with Sir Charles in that same apartment, the 
windows of which had shone so cheerily without, from the 
united glow of lamp and firelight, on that chill October 
night. But Benson and the knight both start alike, though 
each from different causes, as they enter the spacious dining 
room of Merville Grange. The former secs the figure of an 
aged man pass hastily across the room, and disappear 
behind the tapestry with whieh the walls are hung, and a 
strange fiincy possesses him that in that hasty, fleeting 


20 


FLORENCE O NEILL ; OR, 


glance he has recognized, in the face and form of the venera- 
ble ecclesiastic, one of the hunted down priests of Rome 
whom ho had known in other and far distant times, and 
whom his heart rejoiced to see again, and in England, 
doubtless acting up to tho calling of his office, for was he 
not in the house of the papist De Gray? The start of Sir 
Reginald proceeded, however, from a very different cause. 
As ho returned the salutation of Sir Charles, who still held 
in his hand the missive which the servant had delivered, 
the dark eyes of Sir Reginald, now unusually animated, fell 
on the figure of a beautiful girl, who for a moment gazed in 
surprise and mute astonishment on the new comers ; who, 
indeed, should tho zealous adherent of William of Orange 
behold but his betrothed, tho loyal and ardent Florence 
O’Neill, who would have willingly shed tho last drop of her 
blood in defence of the rights of the Stuart race I 

Habited in an evening robe of pale blue silk brocade, the 
sleeves, according to the fashion of tho time, narrow at the 
shoulders, where they were fastened with loops of xlbbon, 
widening as they descended, and turned up at the cuffs, to 
show the under sleeves of rich point, the neck, also, heavily 
trimmed with point. Her single ornament consisted of a 
necklace of largo pearls ; her hair, perfectly unadorned, and 
rebelling again.st the prevailing fashion, fell negligently 
over her shoulders. Pale almost as tho pearls she wore, 
now stood the fair O’Neill, gazing in strange bewilderment 
on Sir Reginald, who thus unexpectedly had crossed her 
path. For one moment their eyes met in mute surprise, 
but brief as was that space, it attracted the notice of Sir 
Charles, on observing which. Sir Reginald, recovering from 
his astonishment, exclaimed, advancing to Florence : 

“ Your fair niece, Sir Charles, and my humble self arc 
old friends, or, not to use such a term where Florence is 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICIv. 


21 


concerned, I would rather say my betrothed, and tell you, 
if you are ignorant of our secret, that we spent together 
much of our early childhood, especially during part of the 
widowhood of Lady O’Neill, who was my own mother’s 
warmest friend. Delighted, indeed, am I to meet Florence 
here, for I believed her to bo at St. Germains.” 

It were hard to say whether Florence was pleased or not 
to meet with St. John, for the smile that had lighted up her 
countenance on the recognition that had taken place had so 
soon faded away. A painful foreboding of impending evil 
fastened itself upon her heart, in short, that sad feeling 
•which we all experience at times, and arc so wont to term 
presentiment, filled her mind with strange forebodings of 
coming sorrow. She gazed long and eagerly, scarcely 
noticing St. John, on the letter in her uncle’s hand. The 
one word of astonishment which Sir Charles had uttered on 
receiving the carefully folded paper from the hands of the 
domestic, coupled with the baronet’s significant look, and 
the words “ William of Orange,” had set all her fears alive 
as to the cause of the unlooked-for appearance of Sir Regi- 
nald. Florence would rather see the wreck of her own 
dearest hopes than become disloyal, yet the color fled from 
her cheeks, and scarce returning the greeting of Sir Rcgi 
nald, she met the warm grasp of his hand with tho faint 
pressure of one as cold as marble, and almost mechanically 
resumed her seat. 

“ I will speak to you to-morrow. Sir Reginald, about this 
matter,” said Sir Charles, as he refolded the letter ; “wo 
will have no business conversation to-night ; you arc 
fatigued and weary, and shall partake of such hospitality as 
the Grange can furnish. Yours must have been dreary 
travelling for some hours past, and your aged friend looks, 
too, as if he sorely needed both rest and refreshment.” 


22 


FLORENCE o’NEILL; OR, 


Weary enough was Benson ; but had the poor baronet 
been cognizant of all that was passing in the mind of his 
guest, he would have known that it was the evil passions 
which filled his mind far more than natural exhaustion, that 
gave to his countenance that restless, distracted expression. 
Notwithstanding, he managed to do full justice to the 
tempting viands placed before him, and demolished with 
tolerable rapidity a portion of a cold capon, flanked with 
ham, and a good allowance of venison pasty, with a quan- 
tity of fine old wine, which the hospitable baronet had 
directed to be placed before his guests. 

Vain were the efforts of Sir Beginald to induce Florence 
to throw off the air of cold restraint that hung over her, and 
he observed, somewhat uneasily, that it was only when he 
introduced the subject of the Court at St. Germains that her 
spirits seemed to recover their wonted tone. For a time it 
appeared as if she yielded to the indignation she felt, for 
her eye kindled, and a bright flush suffused her lately pale 
check, when she spoke of Mary Beatrice and the ex-king. 
Then words of scorn rose to her lips, which she would not 
repress, as she spoke contemptuously of those worthless ones 
who had risen on the wreck of their own fathers’ fortunes, 
of her deep, unswerving love of the Stuart race, of her reso- 
lution, if needs be, to give up her life’s dearest hopes and 
affections for them, and to shed her blood, if necessary, in 
their service, and Sir Reginald felt that she for whom he 
would have given up all he held dear, save his honor, which 
was pledged to William and Mary, was, indeed, lost to him, 
that his own hopes were levelled with the dust ; that drawn 
together by the holiest bonds of an affection which had 
grown up between them from childhood, the hand of the 
high soulcd kinswoman of the great Tyrconnell, the loyal 
Florence, never would be given in marriage to himself. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEiilCK. 


23 


even did her heart break in the rejection she would most 
assuredly make of all overtures of an alliance. But if St, 
John was disturbed and uneasy from tho cause we have 
mentioned, not less so was the timorous baronet, who, in 
tho fluctuations of political opinions, had determined to keep 
himself and his fortune perfectly safe, by maintaining a 
strictly neutral position. It was in vain that by sundry 
impatient gestures, and ever and again by an impetuous 
“ pshaw,” that he attempted to allay the storm which 
was rising in the breast of the excitable Florence. In her 
own heart she ridiculed the timid fears of the old man, 
though respect for his age and the tie which existed between 
them, kept her silent where he was concerned. 31orcovcr, 
Sir Charles had noted what Florence, in her storm of impet- 
uous feeling, had failed to observe : that Benson scarce ever 
removed his keen, light grey eye from the maiden’s coun- 
tenance ; that ever and again an almost basilisk glance darted 
from beneath those heavy eyelids, varied by a fierce expres- 
sion of anger, which seemed as if it could scarce restrain 
itself. Sir Charles was an acute observer ; he had failed in 
his endeavors to silence the incautious Florence, whose 
imprudence was thus exposing herself and him to danger, 
and the baronet resolved to put an end to the conversation 
by commanding a domestic to conduct Sir Beginald and 
Benson to the apartments destined for their use. 

A weird-looking, gloomy chamber was that into which 
St, John was at length ushered, together with the cx-tutor, 
after having passed up a spacious stone stair-case with heavy 
oaken balustrades, and crossed several long corridors with 
apartments branching off both to right and left: but the 
cheerful blaze of a bright wood fire which burned in the 
ample stove gave an appearance of comfort, and the small 
inner apartment, communicating with that of the knight, 


24 


FLOliENCU o’nEILL; Oil, 


had also been duly attended to. With a feeling of weariness 
and dissatisfaction, Sir Ecginald threw himself into a chair 
beside the fire, and folding his arms, remained for some 
time lost in a gloomy reverie, not noticing the observant air 
of Benson, who desirous of imparting to his companion the 
good advice he so much needed, now determined to abide 
by Sir Reginald as closely as in the days of his boyhood. 

Do not suppose, however, that St. John put himself wil- 
lingly under the surveillance of Benson, or patiently bore 
the infliction of his advice : the fact simply was, that he paid 
him that amount of respect and deference which one is wont 
to yield to those under whom we have been placed for a 
series of years, ranging from early youth to mature age. 
Moreover, Benson, introduced at first by the young knight 
to the notice of the Dutch king, had rapidly ingratiated him- 
self in the service of the prince, so that the former friend 
and preceptor was converted, for the time being, into some- 
thing very like a spy on the actions of Sir Reginald. 

It was, indeed, to sound the opinions of the case-seeking 
comfort-loving, timorous old baronet, that St. John had been 
deputed by the king with a gracious message, commanding 
his presence at Kensington, and, likewise, was bade to 
express a hope that, in the event of his aid being required, 
should there be real cause for apprehension of a rising in 
favor of James, that he would not fail to be ready both with 
men and money, according as circumstances might require. 

William was cognizant of far more of his favorite 
Reginald’s intentions, than the latter was at all aware 
of, for Benson had apprised the king of his long-cherished 
attachment for Florence O’Neill; thus it was then, that the 
knight was closely watched, for the advancement of a cer- 
tain purpose in view, had Benson been requested openly by 
the king to accompany him into Gloucestershire, and his 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEIilCK, 


25 


proud spirit continually chafed under the infliction of the 
constant presence of one for whom he was fast ceasing to 
feel the slightest regard. 

Long and patiently did Benson regard the man whose dis- 
position he so well knew, and the feeling of whose heart 
that moment, he could so clearly read ; so deep, however, 
was the abstraction of the latter in his own melancholy 
musings, that his attention was at last only roused hy a 
movement purposely made by his companion. 

“ Arc you grieving, man, because the Papist girl with the 
fair face will not have you ; you, the favored friend of our 
gracious king,” said the fanatic, in harsh, low accents, 
“ what can you be thinking of to seek a mate from such a nest 
as this? Did I not see to-night, with my own eyes, the 
Romish priest, Lawson, pass swiftly through the apartment 
by another door than that at which we entered, and I know 
ho recognized me too, for we were school-mates together 
before ho had anything to do with Romo and her corrup- 
tions ? That he was once my friend, matters not, for his 
superstitious creed makes him now my foe. And this fair- 
faced girl with the mawky blue eyes,” he added, his voice 
sinking to a whisper, “it is a pity but that the gracious 
Mary knew not the treasonable things I have heard her say 
this night, I warrant me the Papist crew at St. Germains 
would stand little chance of beholding her again ; but as to 
you, the favorite of King William, and the beloved sou of 
my adoption, you can surely think of her no more, for the 
Lord loves not to see his chosen ones wed with the daughters 
of Belial.” 

“Silence, Master Benson,” said Reginald, rising as he 
spoke, his handsome countenance full of indignation, “ re- 
member I am no longer the boy whom you can lecture as 
your fancy pleases, but a man who does not choose to regard 
3 


2G 


FLOKE.NXE o’nEILL ; OR, 


or listen to olFeusivc speeches ; I tell you there lives not in 
tho Court of Mary and William, a more pure or noble 
woman than she of whom you dare speak so lightly. Do 
not presume to mention her name again, and please to keep 
your fanaticism, do not trouble me with it, nor meddle about 
affairs with which you have nothing to do.” 

“ Verily,” replied Benson, rising and taking a lamp from 
tho table in order to withdraw to the inner apartment des- 
tined for his own, “ I tell you St. John, you do not know 
what is for your own good, and in your mad fondness for 
this girl, treat very ill one who loves you as well as I do ; I 
fancy you must be aware King William will not long show 
you his favor if you aim no higher than to win the hand of 
this girl of a Papist brood, who is devoted soul and body to 
the miserable and besotted James.” 

How dare you presume to taunt me with the interference 
cf the king,” exclaimed St. John, his temper now gaining 
complete mastery over him, “ now understand once for all, 
Joshua Benson, our long friendship ends from this moment 
if you continue by word or action to presume to interfere 
with my affairs.” 

“Well then, dear St. John, pardon me if the love I bear 
you has made me too zealous, I promise you I will not give 
you offense again, but at the same time, I shall strive with 
the Lord earnestly before I seek my rest this night, I will 
wrestle with Him in prayer, that you may escape the perils 
which I am certain will fall on you if you dally a moment 
longer than is requisite in this abode of Satan.” 

Benson spoke thus as he withdrew from the room, but 
entering the inner chamber he closed the door, stood for a 
moment warming his withered hands over the fire, and then 
said in a low voice : “ I cannot help loving the man as I 
loved the boy ; the evil which I feared years since has come 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


27 


to pass, and out of the very affection I bear him, I will 
place a barrier in his way which he will not be able to 
remove. He would not let me force him when a youth, 
surely not now; but never fear, I know how to gain my 
point by other means; once in London I can easily gain 
speech of the king, and if I do not mistake, all his fine 
plans will soon end in nothing.” “ 

Thus trying to gloss over his villainy under the specious 
pretence of affection for his benefactor and former pupil, 
Benson betook himself falling asleep whilst cogitating over 
the means he should adopt to carry out his schemes. 


CHAPTER IV. 

TRUE TO PRINCIPLE. 

ARLY the next morning. Sir Reginald met 
his host at the breakfast table, but Florence 
was not visible, and he easily accounted for 
her absence, conscious that she must be aware 
that his visit to the Grange had been made to answer some 
political purpose or end of the Dutch Monarch. A long 
and anxious conference it was, which the baronet held with 
his guest later in the morning in the privacy of his own 
apartment. 

He was a timid, quiet country gentleman, caring not one 
jot about state affairs, scarcely heeding whether James the 
Second, or the usurping William sat upon the throne, so 
that he could but be quiet, and yet he was about to bo 
dragged from his own home to have the questionable honor 
of an audience with the king, who would not get rid of the 



28 


FLOEENCE o’eEILL ; OE, 


idea that the baronet, leading the life of a eountry gentle- 
man, had it in his power to be of great service, if he would 
but conquer that absurd timidity, which he had been told 
had grown up with him from his youth. The time was come 
then when it appeared he mxist abandon his seclusion^ and 
though until now, when he was turned sixty years of age, 
he had never adopted any definite time of action ; he was 
required to do so instanter, for his sovereign required the 
aid of all well-wishers to the present government. 

“ An honor, i’faith,” he muttered to himself, “it is an 
honor then I would be very glad to decline accepting ; 
his Majesty will make me pay dearly for it one way or 
another. 

Sir Charles was, however, of a very hesitating disposition, 
and so in the end. Sir Reginald gained his point, and it was 
agreed that the baronet should in a very few days leave the 
the Grange for London, where he would have the audience 
which the king wished to give him. In the evening, St. 
John was to take his leave, and as the day wore on he 
began to entertain some apprehension lest he should not see 
Florence before his departure. 

In this idea, however, he was mistaken, for chance 
brought that about which solicitation would not have pro- 
cured. He had missed his way through the interminable 
galleries of the old house, and instead of returning to the 
room in which he had at last succeeded in extorting the 
unwilling consent of the baronet to appear on the scene of 
public life, he entered the library, the door of which stood 
ajar. Florence was seated at a table, unmindful of his pre- 
sence, till he stood beside her, and extending his hand, he 
exclaimed ; 

.“Dearest Florence, have I offended you beyond forgive- 
ness? Is that loyalty a virtue in you, and a sin in me? 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


29 


Grant me, at least, a hearing before we part, and say may 
I not be allowed to feel some attachment for the king whose 
very name displeases you, even as you feel love for James 
Stuart and Mary of Modena? Do not shrink from me, 
Florence,” he added, as with averted head she gazed 
abstractedly out on the scene beyond the Grange, “but do 
believe me, my betrothed one, William of Orange is not so 
vilely bad, James Stuart not so impeccable as you consider 
them to be.” 

“ I beg you, sir, not to offend my ears by your pleadings 
f jr this Dutch usurper,” said Florence, with an expression 
of sorrow on her features. “ In my eyes it is rank heresy 
to pollute the name of the lawful King of England by men- 
tioning it with that of his traitorous and usurping nephew. 
Oh, Reginald,” she added, in a tone of mingled softness 
and sorrow, “ you know not how I grieve that you should 
have bound yourself to the service of this man, and if you 
remind me of our betrothal, sanctioned years since by my 
departed mother, say if you think that those to whom I owe 
all I possess, those in whose service my kinsfolk have 
fought and died, and for whom I, too, would peril my own 
life, can you, for one moment, think, dear Reginald, that I 
could ever hope to win their consent to our union ?” 

The last words were spoken in a tone of inexpressible 
sadness. That short word of endearment, too, almost 
unconsciously used, encouraged St. John, and he replied: 

“We do not need the consent of the ex-king, or his consent 
to our nuptials, my Florence. William and Mary will 
prove to us friends equally as dear, and will grace our 
bridal with their presence. Your uncle, too, will not frown 
upon our union, for by the end of the week he will bo 
admitted to the favor of an audience with the king on affairs 
connected with the State.” 

3 * 


30 


FLORENCE o’nEILE ; OR, 


For one moment Florence was silent ; the tear of human 
tenderness, the tribute to the weakness of woman’s nature, 
which a moment since had trembled in her eye, was proudly 
dashed aside, and she exclaimed : 

‘ ‘ Reginald, are you playing with the fears of my woman’s 
heart, or arc you speaking in earnest ? My uncle, timid as 
he is, is still true to the Stuart cause, though he has per- 
sistently held aloof from mixing in any political cabal. 
Surely your errand here has not been to lead him from his 
allegiance. Have you spoken the truth, Reginald?” 

“ I have spoken the simple truth, and rejoiced that the 
good baronet yielded, because I regarded the idea of his 
adhesion to William’s government as an incentive to induce 
my beloved Florence to cast away her prejudices.” 

“ You arc bold as well as insolent,” said Florence, bit- 
terly. “ Do you think this a seemly way to win my con- 
sent to our union? You do not know me, I think, but 
understand that yonder sun is about as likely to fall from 
the heavens as I to unite my fate with that of so devoted an 
adherent of the Dutch king. No, not a word more,” she 
added, wrenching her hand from his grasp, “ my heart may 
break at witnessing the mistaken prejudices, harbored under 
the name of loyalty, of those I love, but never shall it for- 
swear, whatever be its struggles, its allegiance to the Stuarts.” 

As she spoke these werds she rushed out of the room, and 
hurrying to her own chamber, wept long and bitterly over 
the defection of her uncle, and the mistaken line of conduct 
pursued by Reginald, to whom the whole wealth of her 
affections had long been devoted ; nor did she leave her 
room till she had seen Sir Reginald and the fanatical Ben- 
son gallop down the avenue leading from the Grange. 
Then, with tears in her eyes, she sought her apartment, the 
secret of admission to which was known only to herself and 
Sir Charles do Gray. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


31 


Florence Iiad turned licr steps to an almost uninhabited 
wing of the mansion, and entering a small ante-room, to 
which she obtained admission by a pass-key which she kept 
in her possession, she entered a spacious apartment, which 
had not been tenanted for a long series of years. Its 
antique oaken furniture, with cushions of Utrecht velvet, 
was eovered with dust ; spiders had woven their webs in 
every nook and corner of the room, and the tapestry hang- 
ings were in many places falling to pieces. 

Advancing to the further extremity of the room, she 
raised the tapestry, and pressing her finger on a spring 
which lay concealed in the wall, the panel flew back, and 
disclosed a recess large enough to allow of a* person passing 
through in a stooping posture. This was, in fact, one of 
those places of concealment known by the name of “ priests’ 
hiding holes,” and which arc still to be found in many of 
our old mansions. 

Florence then passed through the aperture, and making 
her way through a passage built in the wall, at the end of 
which was a small arched door, she tapped gently for admit- 
tance, and was answered by the mild Benedicite of the good 
Father, who, concealed a captive, had remained within 
since the arrival of Sir Reginald and Benson. 

Commanding as to personal appearance, and the qualities 
of his mind as noble as the expression of his countenance, 
Father Lawson received with a smile the intelligence of 
Florence that the Grange was now free of its visitants, and 
that the baronet wished the society of the good Father that 
evening. 

“ I fear, Florence,” said the priest, “ that evil will come 
of the visit of Benson, for, unfortunately, he caught a 
glimpse of mo the night of his arrival. I did not like his 
manner when we last met* You have heard me speak of 


32 


FLORENCE O’nEILL ; OR, 


the man. He was not always the fanatic which he has 
become for some years past. In our youth, and before my 
own conversion to the Catholic faith, we were college mates 
together, and though, even then, he had a tinge of moroso- 
ness in his character, no one would have imagined he would 
have become one of the most fanatical of men. I fancy it 
was first adopted to ingratiate himself with Sir Reginald’s 
father, whose preceptor he, unhappily, became, much to the 
horror and distress of the worthy Lady St. John, who was 
far from an illiberal woman in her religious views. How- 
ever, my child, the narrow mind of Benson has never for- 
given me the step I took in joining the Church of Rome ; 
and I am positive that if he can bring me into trouble he 
will not hesitate to do so. In order, therefore, not to be the 
cause of anxiety to Sir Charles, I shall, for a short time, 
leave this place and go to the metropolis, for I am quite 
sure the recognition was mutual on the part of Benson a.s 
well as my own.” 

When the priest had concluded, Florence acquainted him 
with the story of her own trouble, touching lightly, how- 
ever, on the portion of her story relating to Sir Reginald, 
but dwelling bitterly on her uncle’s contemplated defection. 
The Jesuit, however, knew the history of her betrothal, 
and ho warned and exhorted her against the evil that would 
infallibly attend her nuptials should she become the wife of 
.one now the avowed favorite of William. “ You must suf- 
fer with others, my child,” said he, “ for our lot is cast in 
troublous times. There is nothing to be done but to wait, 
and watch, and pray lovingly and trustingly that, in God’s 
own good time, if He seeth fit, these clouds may pass away, 
and, as far as you arc yourself concerned, that Reginald, 
to whom you are betrothed, may become wise in time, and 
cast aw'ay his allegiance to the usurper, for fealty to bis 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


33 


exiled king. As to the news about your uncle/ 1, indeed, 
grieve to hear such tidings, wondering that William of 
Orange can lure him from his life of peaceful indolence, now 
to him a second nature from the mere force of habit, to the 
busy scenes of public life. But we shall see, Florence,” he 
continued; “ we can, as I have just told you, only watch 
and pray.” 

Then giving her his blessing, the good Father, ever her 
comforter and adviser in the time of trial, bade her farewell, 
and gliding through the long passages and open apertures, 
she replaced the panel and hastened to the library, in which, 
as she expected, she found her uncle seated, clad in a robe 
of pale green brocade, made in the simplest manner. 
Florence looked exquisitely lovely. She needed no extra- 
neous aid to add to the charms with which nature had 
endowed her, and advancing to the old man’s scat, even 
before he was aware of her approach, her golden hair had 
waved upon his withered cheeks, and a tear fell on the 
forehead she reverently kissed. 

“Why, Florence, my child, what ails you?” said the 
baronet, drawing her to his side. “ Why arc you in tears? 
Do you know I am going to London ? Cheer up now, or I 
promise I will not please you by showing you the great city 
during the few weeks that will pass before you go back to 
France.” 

“Alas! it is that very journey that grieves me, for T 
have ascertained the cause that brought Bcginald hither. 
Think twice, uncle, before you take this step.” 

“I have thought about it, Florence, and my word is 
pledged to meet the king. Do not look I will call him . 
the Dutch usurper then, as that is the term you like best, 
my loyal one. ]Jut, look you, Florence, because I have an 
audience with William of Orange, I do not, for this reason, 
forswear my fealty to King .Tames.” 


34 


FLOEENCE o’nEII.L ; OE, 


‘ ‘ It is, uncle, a tampering with honor that is not strictly 
honorable,’' said Florence, “ and may lead to great dissatis- 
faction in the usurper’s cause, when all your life you have 
been inactive for your lawful kings. How can I tell my royal 
master at St. Germains that my own uncle has acted thus? ” 

‘ ‘ Silence, Florence,” said the old man, in a phayful voice, 
yet half annoyed at the pertinacity w'lth which Florence 
pressed her point; “ I will give you lo cause for shame. 
And, now, I have a question to put to you. If you feel my 
acquiescence with William’s wishes for an audience, which 
I could not well excuse myself from, as kings’ requests arc 
akin to commands, you simple one, then how do you like 
the knowledge that your future husband is the favorite of 
the Dutchman, as you scornfully call him ? He left me full 
of sorrow at your anger towards him, and begged mo to 
intercede in his behalf.” 

“Let him win my love by deserting the court of the 
usurper,” said Florence, a bright glow of indignation 
mantling her cheek. “ My heart may break under the 
trial, but I will never marry St. John, while he is the 
sworn friend and favorite of William of Orange ; and as far 
as you are concerned, my dear uncle, I shall sec you enter 
the precincts of that hateful court with dread and abhor- 
rence, lest unlooked-for evil may befall you. When we arc 
in London I shall count the days till I leave for France.” 

“We begin our journey to-morrow, Florence; when we 
meet next try and put a brighter face on things,” said Sir 
Charles, who then left the room, anxious to close the con- 
versation. 

For a few moments Florence stood in a musing attitude, 
then she exclaimed, with a smile on her face, “ Yes, it may 
be as well, for in London I, too, shall have my part to play ; 
I will see Ashton, and who knows, weak as I am, I may 
have it in my power to aid my royal mistress.” 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


35 


CHAPTER V. 


THE CONSPIRACY. 



HE shades of the early December evening 
were fast deepening into night, and a misty 
rain, which had been falling for several 
hours, had now resolved itself into a deter- 
mined heavy shower, gradually emptying the streets in the 
neighborhood of Covent Garden of the few wayfarers whom 
business or other needful occupation drove from the shelter 
of their homes, to encounter the miseries of the inclement 
weather. Closely veiled, and her form shrouded in the 
heavy folds of a dark mantle, a lady passed rapidly along, 
accompanied by a young man, whoso dress and bearing 
betokened him to be of the middle class. His hat was 
drawn low over his forehead, evidently with a wish to shun 
observation, and with a swift step, his companion leaning 
on his arm, these two persons emerged from the friendly 
shelter afforded by the garden wall of the Earl of Bedford’s 


mansion. 

The house in question was a wooden building, erected on 
the site now occupied by the lower end of Southampton 
street, and the garden traversed that very spot where the 
southern row of the buildings of Covent Garden is now 


situated. 

“ Have we got far to walk, my good friend,” said 
Florence, who, accompanied by Ashton, had on this even- 
ing left her uncle’s house, in the village of Kensington, thus 
involving herself in the perilous enterprise entrusted to 
Ashton. 

We are watched,” she whispered, before he had time to 
reply, as she observed a man, evidently disguised, accom- 


3G 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


pauicd l>y another whose features she well knew, now stand- 
ing beneath an archway on the opposite side of the road. 
“I have heard distinctly,” she continued, in a whisper, 
“■the sound of footsteps following our own for some time 
past. Tell me, Ashton, are we near your homo?” 

‘ ‘ 13e not alarmed, dear lady,” said Ashton, in a voiee as 
low as her own ; “ a few moments more, and I shall have 
the pleasure of seeing you safely lodged.” 

Almost immediately, indeed, a turn in the road brought 
them in front of the house occupied by Ashton’s family, and 
glancing warily round he perceived, not without sharing in 
the uneasiness of his companion, that the persons we have 
alluded to were evidently still on the watch, they having 
left the archway in which they had concealed themselves. 

By means of a pass-key Ashton introduced his companion 
within the house. Their arrival, however, had been 
expected, for as ho closed the door, a young and pretty 
woman, her countenance bearing traces of intense anxiety, 
as also of joy at seeing him again, welcomed his return. 
Then turning to Florence, she said : 

“ I fear. Madam, you have suffered much during your 
long and hasty walk this inclement night. Let me at once 
afford you all the assistance in my power.” 

Then, accompanied by Ashton, she led Florence to a small 
parlor on the ground floor, the genial warmth of which 
afforded a pleasant contrast to the inclement weather she 
had recently braved. A huge log of wood hissed and 
crackled cheerily, as it lay in the large fire-place, beside 
which Florence beheld herself quickly installed, whilst on a 
table, in the centre of the room, a snow white cloth was 
spread, covered with several dainties, not the least sub- 
stantial of which was a huge venison pasty. Covers were 
placed for six persons, and Florence was cogitating already 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEIHCK. 


37 


as to who the other visitants might be, when a low tap was 
heard at the window. Ashton immediately rose, and’, 
advancing gently to the door, admitted two gentlemen, in 
one of whom Florence recognized a disaffected noble attached 
to the court of William, but whom she w'as aware, from a 
conversation she had heard between himself and her unde, 
was playing an active part in the efforts now being made to 
re-establish James on the throne of Great Britain. 

This nobleman, in whom the reader will recognize Pres- 
ton, who played so conspicuous a part in a plot which 
involved some of the best and bravest of the nobility, as also 
not a few of the most estimable of the clergy, was accom- 
panied by a gentleman named Elliot, to whom Florence was 
a stranger. Then drawing near, Lord Preston said to her, 
in a tone of surprise : 

“ My dear young lady, is Sir Charles aware of your 
presence among us ? lie has become almost a favorite with 
the king, and I should not think would approve of his niece 
joining our ranks ; but if, as Ashton informs me, you have 
sufficient courage, we shall duly value the accession.” 

“I am not likely to lack courage in the cause of our 
gracious king and queen,” said Florence, “and have 
already told Master Ashton, who escorted me to England 
by her Majesty’s command, that I am willing to lend my 
help in any way in which it may be made useful.” 

Ashton then begged his guests to partake of the sub- 
stantial fare his hospitality had provided, and drawing * 
round the table, they did ample justice to the viands before 
them, conversing meanwhile, in an undertone, of the attempt 
about to be made in favor of King James. A heavy gloom, 
however, hung over the spirits of poor Mrs. Ashton. Her 
attempt to smile, when rallied by her guests, was perfectly 
ludicrous, and more than once Florence observed she was in 
4 


38 FLORENCE o’nEILL; OR, 

tears, aud ou her husband bidding her keep up her spirits, 
she replied : 

“ A deadly apprehension of approaching evil rests upon 
me ; I cannot shake it off.” 

Somewhat hastily, Ashton replied : 

“ Eepress such foolish forebodings, Janet. As for us, 
wlio have the work to perform, it is essentially necessary to 
set about it in a hopeful state of mind.” 

The cloth then removed by an elderly maid servant, too 
deaf to listen to their conversation, even if she had had the 
will to betray them, the real business of the evening com- 
menced — that business which had brought together, in such 
close converse, the noble and the esquire, the simple Ash- 
ton and the high-bred Florence, with his wife Janet, form- 
cidy the richly dowered and handsome daughter of the 
wealthy citizen and craftsman, Richard Dawson. 

‘'Now that vfc have at last met, my lord,” exclaimed 
Asliton, “ let us decide as to what will be the best course 
for us to pursue. In less than a month Christmas will be 
at hand, before which time we must be out of England. 
Mistress Florence, also, must again be at St. Germains, and 
if we defer any longer w'c shall find it impossible to dare the 
hazardous stake we have to play.” 

“ And what plan would you adopt?” asked Lord Preston. 
“ IIow can we best arrange, in secrecy and silence, to con- 
voy to those who languish at St. Germains news from 
friends devoted to their interests? I marvel, Ashton, if 
even your ready wit has yet seen the way by which we can 
effect our object. I fancy you have thought the matter 
more easy than we may chance to find it.” 

“ Ah, my lord,” replied the brave and gallant Ashton, 
with a sigh, “ trust mo; love and loyalty know nought of 
obstacles, or if prudence demands caution and care in their 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


30 


dealings with those around them, still they pass on fearlessly 
to their work. Do not let us grow depressed at the very 
outset, my lord, for, as I just warned my wife, it will most 
eHcctually prevent our success.” 

As Ashton spoke, Florence noted the sigh which accom- 
panied his words, and observed a scarcely perceptible flush 
mantle the cheek of Lord Preston; she knew it to be the 
flush of rising vexation of spirit, at the contrast which the 
bold, enthusiastic daring of the intrepid Ashton presented, 
to his own vacillating humor. A shade, too, had passed 
over Ashton’s features, and a something of fear possessed 
him as to whether the noble lord was an instrument quite 
fitting for himself and those whose interests he had at heart, 
to deal with ; and it may even be, that with that sigh came 
a sad foreboding of impending evil, and he could not but 
look with contempt on this nobleman, who having put his 
hand to the plough, was yet half-minded to look back and 
retrace his steps. Ah, could he have seen the sad future 
which loomed so darkly over and around, eould he have 
foreseen that his own head would fall, and the ignoble peer 
be saved, as the page of history shows, and saved, not 
beeause more innocent than Ashton, for in the sight of the 
ruling powers each was alike guilty, but merely because, 
coward like, ho screened himself from the punishment ho 
had equally merited, by disclosing all the windings and 
ramifications of a plot, which compromised not only persons 
of rank and consideration in England, but also in Scotland • 
Put Ashton’s vigorous mind had planned things much more 
cleverly than Lord Preston surmised, for he had said truly 
that where cither woe or loyalty arc concerned, obstacles are 
only thought of as things that must be overcome, and ho 
then narrated how through -a person named Durdott, with 
whom he lad become acquainted, he was about to be intro- 


4a 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


duccd to a woman whose husband possessed a smack w'hich 
would carry over to France his lordship, Ashton himself, 
Florence, Mr. p]lliott, and if required, also any other per- 
sons who might wish to join them. 

“ I shall offer,” continued Ashton, “ 100 guineas, for 
the amount of money to bo agreed on shall not bo an object, 
and if I do not meet the master of the vessel at Burdett’s 
house, we have arranged to appoint an evening to sec him 
at the Wonder Tavern on Ludgato Hill, and I hope, my 
lord,” ho added, “ to bo able to set sail at the latest, early 
in December. These arc my present arrangements,” he 
added, “and as your lordship has honored my poor house 
so far as to make it the place of our meeting to-night, I 
shall be glad to know if these, perhaps, still undigested 
plans meet your approval ; for if they satisfy your lordship, 
they will also have the kindly favor of those in whose 
behalf you have come here to-night.” 

“ Really, Ashton, I do not see you could have arranged 
better,” replied Lord Preston, “ and now, gentle lady,” he 
continued, turning to Florence, “ will you let me know at 
what time you intend to seek the presence of Queen Mary? 
Your worthy uncle,” he added, “has so easily fallen into 
the toils spread for him by the flatteries of William, that 
the task of introduction will not be a difficult one, but trust 
me, you may as soon think of turning the lion’s whelps as 
softening the queen’s heart, if such should be your idea. 
Indeed, putting aside Mary’s own evil inclinations, has not 
her husband made it his study since the fatal day on which 
King Charles decreed that she should become the bride of 
the then Prince of Orange ; has it not, I say, been his con- 
stant effort to steel her heart against every natural emotion 
of filial love, to deny in her presence all that she has been 
taught to consider holy, for his own vile purposes, to make 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


41 


her utterly unmindful of house and home affections ? Ay I ” 
continued Lord Preston, now carried away by the enthu- 
siasm of the moment, and by his dislike of 'William III, so 
as to forget the minor considerations of self love or self and 
self preservation by which he was generally distinguished, 
“ have I not myself heard him dare to speak disparagingly 
of her royal father even when in public, and revile all that 
she was ever taught to love,” 

Florence, as Lord Preston spoke thus, remembered 
also a certain speech which was said on good authority to 
have been uttered by Mary ; for when the unfortunate James 
wrote after his coronation, reproaching her for having suf- 
fered this ceremony to have been performed whilst himself 
and the Prince of Wales lived, William vindicated himself 
declaring that he had done nothing but by her advice, 
when this most dutiful of daughters replied with irritation, 
that if her father regained his authority, her husband might 
thank himself, for letting him go as he did. 

Florence was aware that from this hour, James always 
believed that his daughter wished some cruelty to be perpe- 
trated against him, and whilst she pondered over this 
remark, she thought, and perhaps not incorrectly, that where 
there was so much evil of natural growth, there could not 
be much required in the way of prompting by others, but 
be it as it may, Florence had resolved on finding her way to 
the presence of Mary, hoping to bo able in some way or 
another, though at present she knew not how, to be of use 
to the exiles at St. Germains. Then to her amazement, 
names were mentioned of persons whom she had little 
deemed were averse to the rule of William and Mary, the 
IJishop of Ely, Clarendon, the queen’s uncle and many 
other persons of consideration and note, were alluded to as 
being concerned in the meditated conspiracy. And still 
4 * 


42 


FLORENCE o’NEILL J OR, 


conversiug, they after a short time, gradually arranged the 
line of action to be pursued with regard to the journey to 
France, they had some time meditated, for in Louis XIV all 
their hopes were founded, and without him there could be no 
good effected. 

And in the cause of royalty, Florence had her part to 
play, and it was one beset, too, with difficulties; none other 
in fact, than to be introduced through the means of Lord 
Preston and her uncle, to the presence of Mary, and once 
within the precincts of the court, to watch and note all that 
passed around her, to bo the medium for conveying letters, 
written in ciphers, to and from the disaffected nobles who 
dwelt around the court, receiving from them in return mis- 
sives, which would hereafter be conveyed to France as soon 
as their plans were fully mastered. Not till a late hour of 
the night did the party break up, Florence being escorted to a 
sleeping apartment prepared for her reception by Mistress 
Ashton, who as soon as they were alone, exclaimed, burst- 
ing into tears : 

‘^My mind, dear madam, is tormented with fear and 
anxiety, one constant thought torments me, it is that this 
rising will be discovered, and my husband fall a victim to 
the fury of the queen.” 

With many gentle words Florence strove to allay her ap- 
prehensions, but her efforts were for some time in vain, and 
she felt no small relief when, after Mistress Ashton had in- 
sisted on her own maid discharging for her the duties of 
the toilette, weary and fatigued she laid her head on 
receiving an assurance from her still weeping friend, that 
she would not fail to have her aroused in time to insure her 
return to Kensington, before Sir Charles by missing her 
from the breakfast should be aware that she had been from 
home. 


tup: siege of eimeeick. 


43 


AVe must now look back into the courts of the last two 
months, taking up the thread of our narrative, from the 
moment at wliich Sir Charles resolved on visiting London in 
company with his niece. 

A wearisome time indeed succeeded that which would 
elapse ere Florence could hope to return to France, and the 
days of her sojourn in London promised little else than re- 
straint of spirit, unless her busy and ever active mind could 
be in any way engaged by taking part in the conspiracy 
which was being so diligently hatched against the present 
possessor of the English crown. 

Again, too, every eifort was made by Forence to prevent 
a hindrance to any future meetings with St. John, unless 
she was previously made aware that he had become a convert 
even to the political opinions of her somewhat imperious 
self. 

Then too, came a new torment in the person of the once 
timorous old baronet, who now appeared to the excitable 
Florence, full of an unholy exultation at the thought of his 
approaching presentation to William ; indeed, had he at once 
pledged himself to the prince of darkness himself, we ques- 
tion if this enthusiastic adherent of the Stuart race would 
have been more shocked. 

In the village of Kensington, then in the palace of which 
place William and Mary at that time held their court, the 
baronet had deputed Sir Reginald to hire for his use, a 
somewhat handsome residence ; and flattered in his old age 
by the idea of notice even from usurped royalty, though he 
had never cared to receive or court its favor in the days of 
his youth and strength. Sir Charles really appeared as if 
he was meditating undoing the work of his whole life, 
during which ho had lived entirely aloof from any inter-’ 
fercncc with politics. 


44 


FLORENCE O NEILL; OR, 


But tlie case was altered now, and fluttered about the old 
baronet a coterie of persons favored at the Court of the 
Butch monarch, anxious to make a proscljtc, and entangle 
in their meshes, the hitherto inflexible old Papist, Amongst 
their hangers-on at the court, was a favorite page of the 
king, named Walter Harding. As to personal appearance 
few men of his time could compete with him ; his soubric|uct 
was “ the handsome page,” and none stood higher in the 
favor of William than did this youth, who was also well 
known to and an intimate acquaintance of Reginald St. 
John ; of him we shall have cause to speak later. 

It was with feelings of mingled alarm and indignation, 
that Forence beheld the foolish old baronet fall unresistingly 
and readily into the hands of the court parasites, who all 
had a keen eye to the influence he possessed as well as to 
the broad acres in the respective counties of Cumberland 
and Gloucestershire of which he was the master, and she 
witnessed the time approaching for his presentation at Ken- 
sington with absolute horror; meanwhile, her mind was 
harrassed at the thought of the distress which her friends 
at the Court of St. Germains would experience at the lapse 
of time which must pass before that originally intended for 
her return. And she well knew the agony of apprehension 
that Mary of Modena would endure did she not return at 
the appointed time. However there was nothing to be done 
but wait with patience, and with this resolve she 
endeavored to watch calmly the present demeanor of her 
fickle old uncle and his future behavior, and also to strive by 
his means to procure admission to the English Court. 


TUE SIEGE OP LIMERICK. 


45 


CHAPTER VI. 


SARSFIELD, LORD LUCAN. 



[HE clocks in the good city of Limerick had 
proclaimed the first hour of a new day, and, 
save the occasional bark of a dog, or the 
pattering of the rain, mingled with the faint 
sighing of the breeze, all was hushed in profound silence. 

Yet there were two watehers in one of the upper cham- 
bers of a house just without the walls, and they appeared 
to bo buried in profound meditation. The room was simply, 
nay, scantily furnished ; in fact, it contained nothing save 
two or three chairs, a mean looking truckle bedstead, on 
which was a mattress and a few blankets, a table, bearing 
the remains of a humble repast, and a chest of walnut- wood 
drawers at the farther end of the room, on which were 
placed a sword, bolt, cap, and other accoutrements, declar- 
ing the profession of the inmate of that humble room to be 
that of arms. 

Pacing the room, with a disturbed air, was a lady, whose 
age it were, perhaps, not easy to guess, for, to a certain 
freshness of complexion, and with hair whoso rich brown 
reeked not of one silvery thread, there was that unmistak- 
able maturity of form which may belong to a woman of 
some forty or forty-five years of age, together with those 
unmistakable lines on the brow whicli wo call furrows, 
placed on the smooth forehead of woman by care and 
anxiety if not by the hand of time. 

Seated beside the fire sits a man in the military undress 
of an officer, and with one hand shading his eyes from the 
bright glare of the lamp, he holds with the other an open 
letter, wliieli he peruses w'ith care and attention. 


46 


FLOEENCE o’NEILL ; OR, 


This man was no other than Ireland’s hero, the brave and 
gallant veteran, Sarsfield, Lord Lucan. 

“Take heart, Catherine,” he exclaimed, addressing the 
lady, “ you may, perhaps, be indulging unnecessary fear. 
Madcap as she is, I think Florence has yet enough prudence 
to take care of herself. I do not like, any more than you 
do, this meditated encounter with Mary, but you have 
owned that this man, Layton, who has introduced himself 
to you, is an entire stranger, so that I do not see why you 
should place such implicit faith in his word.” 

“ I cannot doubt the truth of what he has told mo,” said 
Miss O’Neill ; “he has shown himself too well acquainted 
with the affairs of my family to permit of my doing so. Ho 
evidently knows Sir Charles personally, spoke of Father 
Lawson, described the old Grange in Gloucestershire, where 
he had met the good Father, in company with that Sir 
Reginald, to whom Florence was long since betrothed. He 
also said that she had been seen in company with Ashton, 
one of the gentlemen attached to the household of Mary 
Beatrice, who, it is known, has but recently come from 
France, and is striving hard to return thither.” 

“ Well, the story, certainly, is a strange one,” answered 
the General, musingly ; so strange that really I should like 
to sec the man. If anything be amiss I may be able to 
detect it. At all events I shall not return to my quarters 
till to-morrow night, and as you say ho intends to call on 
you to-morrow, I will take care to see him, but we must 
still remember that Florence is possessed of more judgment 
and penetration than many of her sex. Depend on it, she 
will not involve herself without due precaution in the 
intended rising. For myself, I much like the news con- 
tained in the letter now before me,” continued Sarsfield ; 
‘ ‘ it gives me to understand that we may expect Tyrconncll 


THE SIEGE OF LIHEillCK. 


47 


early next month, when our poor soldiers will again have an 
opportunity to show their intrepidity. And now,” ho 
added, ‘^I think you and myself had best betake ourselves 
to rest, and do not make yourself uneasy about Florence. 
Rest assured all is right as far as she is concerned. I believe 
her far too prudent to tempt danger.” 

Silent, though far from feeling convinced, Catherine 
O’Neill, the paternal aunt of Florence, retired to her room, 
not to sleep, but to muse over the fortunes of her orphan 
niece, and the perturbed state of public affairs, which at that 
time invested the city of Limerick with so much interest, 
and has since claimed for it and its gallant defenders so 
great an amount of prestige through succeeding ages. 

Early in the morning the General met his cousin. Miss 
O’Neill, at breakfast. He had for a few days become her 
visitor on one condition alone, viz : that all ceremony 
should bo foregone, and the poorest and simplest room in 
the house fitted up for his use, with a mattress for his bed 
and plain diet for his table ; and his mind was intent on the 
contents of the letter he had received the night before, when 
a servant, entering the room, announced the arrival of Mr. 
Layton. 

At the same moment the sound of many voices, as of per- 
sons clamoring for admission, broke upon their ears, accom- 
panied by the footsteps of a large concourse of people, then 
a peal of deafening knocks sounded at the door, and 
tumultuous cries of Bring out the Saxon sjyg ! Down toith 
the thraitor ! reveberated on the air. Scarce one moment 
had elapsed between the entrance of the servant announcing 
the arrival of Layton and the utterance of the shouts and 
cries which now met their astonished ears, and the acute 
General immediately divined that in some way their 
stranger visitant had -to do with the fearful disturbance 
without. 


48 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


Accordingly he bent a searching gaze on the man who 
stood before him trembling with fear, scarce able to speak 
from excessive agitation, his light grey eyes sinking beneath 
the eagle glance of Sarsfield, who seemed to be asking him- 
self where he had met the person whoso features ho per- 
fectly well remembered, but whoso identity was rendered 
uillicult to establish, in consequence of the man of well nigh 
four score years having adopted the disguise of one of forty ; 
for our old friend Benson stands face to face with SarsQcld, 
no longer with his own silvery locks, combed straight over 
his forehead, an,d in the sober suit of dark cloth it was his 
custom to wear, but with his head adorned with a brown 
wig, his garments of the newest cut and fashion, and gay 
material to boot, and the whole man so strangely metamor- 
phosed that no wonder the brave General failed to recog- 
nize Benson in him, the fanatic Benson whom he had 
known in earlier days, and sincerely regretted that the 
training of the youth St. John had been entrusted to his 
care. 

But two ringleaders of the mob without clamored loudly 
for admittance. Their voices were recognized by the Gen- 
eral, and, acting on a sudden impulse, he gave orders that 
the door should be opened, and these persons admitted. 

But Sarsfield, as he passed through the hall, had been 
seen at the open door ; it \vas no longer a question of admis- 
sion of two persons, for, pushing forcibly by the affrighted 
servant, a tumultuous crowd rushed in, shrieking out: 

“ Och, and is it yourself, Gincral dear ? Give us up the 
cowardly spalpeen, the black divil of a Saxon ; let us have 
the bluid of the thraitor sure, and is it from the camp of Ihc 
inimy he comes?” were a few of the string of epithets 
which rung in the cars of the General and his cousin. 

“Silence, silence, my friends,” exclaimed Sarsfield, and 


« THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


49 


he gesticulated with all his force to secure the attention of 
the infuriated mob, for the greater part of the inhabitants 
of the city of Limerick seemed to be thronging to the 
quarter in which his cousin’s house was situated ; and hav- 
iug taken care to commit Benson to the custody of two stout 
serving men, he said : 

“ We must be just, and, before ■we punish, see in wbat 
the prisoner is guilty. Now then, speak ; how has this 
man oflfended?” he added, in a loud voice, addressing the 
ringleaders of the unruly mob. 

Denis McCarthy, a tall, muscular man, attired as a pri- 
vate soldier, now stepped forward, saying : 

“ Arrah, yer honor, thin the rale fact is this. Yonder 
spalpeen has just come from Derry, where he has a dale of 
frinds I’m afther bein’ tould. My brother Barney knew 
him in London, yer honor, and sure that is why we know 
him, for a thraitor its thrue that he is, thin. Gineral dear, 
make him take off his wig, and a white headed old fellow 
ye’ll see.” 

Sarsficld found it no very easy matter to make himself 
heard in reply to this not very clear speech of McCarthy’s, 
for more than twenty voices at once exclaimed ; 

Whisht, yer honor, sure and he’s afther mischief, the 
false Saxon that he is, faix. He knows a power of things, 
and that a good priest from England is in this house. The 
spalpeen and spy, dog that he is, is afther seeing the Father, 
and thin sure and its aisy to know what he’d be afther doing 
later, and afther he’s done mischief for the Father, thin he 
can still do a mighty purty business of his own respecting a 
relation of Miss O’Neill’s herself.” 

“ What have you to say, villainous spy,” said the Gen- 
eral, darting on him a look of mingled indignation and con- 
tempt. “What have you to say in your defence, you 
5 


50 


FLOllENCE o’NEILL; OE, 


wretclicd spy ? What reason can you give why we should’nt 
hang you up like a dog, as you are, on tho Limerick gal- 
lows before tbo sun has set ? How dare you presume to 
come here to carry on your treasonable practices ? Hark 
ye, boys,” ho continued, addressing Denis and another, who 
appeared to have acted the part of ringleaders, ‘ ‘ I will hear 
what punishment you each decree, and then decide which 
he shall undergo.” 

“ Arrah, thin, Gineral dear,” said Denis, who, by the 
w’ay, I should have said, was the General’s servant when in 
his quarters, “ sure and I’m afther asking ycr honor to let 
me do him one little service before we are afther punishing 
him.” 

“With all my heart, Denis, I put him entirely in your 
hands,” said Sarsfield, while a low groan escaped the lips 
of tho terrified wretch before him. With a yell of joy, 
Denis bounded forward, and the next moment, amidst loud 
and deafening huzzas, the curly brown peruke was thrown 
high over the heads of the assembled crowd. 

“ See, see, the spalpeen, and sure isn’t it a shame,” 
shouted Denis, “ that ye should be afther disgracing an 
old man’s white locks in such a way ? And now what’ll we 
do, Gineral, with this thraitorous spy? I’m afther think- 
ing it would do him a dale of good to tie him on a donkey’s 
back, and give him a rope’s end all through the streets of 
Limerick ; but first, yer honor, we’ll have a bit o’ sport, 
and be afther shaving his head, seeing that thin he’ll have 
thruc and rale reason to wear a wig.” 

‘ ‘ Well said, Denis,” replied Sarsfield. ‘ ‘ And now, Pat, 
let me hear what punishment you devise, and then I can 
choose between the two.” 

Pat lifted his cap to the General, and then said ; 

“Thin if the thruth may be tould, Gineral, I’m afther 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


51 


thinking frind Denis too gintle by half. Whisht, yer 
honor,” he added, with a finger on his lips, “ wouldn’t it he 
a purtier thing to hang him up and let him die the thraitor’s 
death.” 

“ Hurra ! hurra !” shouted the mob, the cry taken up by 
the multitude in the distance ; “let him die the thraitor’s 
death. If ye spares him, Gincral, its sure and afther mis- 
chief he’ll be goin’ agin.” 

“ What say you, traitorous spy,” shouted Sarsfield, 
“ why shouldn’t you die the death ye so rich deserve, as 
these men so justly decree ?” 

“ Spare me, oh, spare me,” cried the miserable wretch, 
‘ ‘ and I promise you I’ll never, never, set foot in Ireland 
again. Here, here,” he exclaimed, putting his hands in his 
pockets, and with frantic eagerness, pulling out sundry rolls 
of paper, “ I had these from King William’s favorite page, 
and give them to you instead of to those for whom they were 
intended. Pardon me, and I will” .... 

“ Give him to us, Gineral dear, give him to %is, and we’ll 
make the spalpeen answer for some of his tricks,” exclaimed 
the voices of men raised to such a pitch of fury that but for 
the presence of a leader as popular as Sarsfield, it had been 
certain the career of this dangerous fanatic had been imme- 
diately cut short. 

As it was, however, Sarsfield again commanded silence, 
and recommended him to mercy on account of his old ago. 
Then, turning to Denis, he said : 

“ I think I shall leave this wretched creature to your 
merciful treatment, Denis, you undertaking, however, to see 
that he embarks for London as soon as the punishment 
shall have been inflicted.” 

“ Och, thin, Gineral, sure and I think out of consithera- 
tion to his white hairs, barring the rale fact that he doesn’t 


52 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL ; OE, 


care one bit about thim himself, we’ll be afther letting him 
off a little more aisy than I thought of doing ; so, yer 
honor,” added Denis, in one of his most persuasive tones, 
‘ ‘ suppose we give him only fifty lashes. Sure and I have 
the hould of him, and will see that ho is fairly banished 
from the Emerald Isle forever.” 

The General bowed his assent, and aware that ho might 
safely commit this discomfited villain into the hands of Denis, 
he delivered him up to his safe custody, the former carrying 
him off in triumph, amidst the yells and groans of the mob. 

Poor Denis ! Benson escaped much more mercifully than 
he deserved, for ho chose to give him the lashes himself, and 
laid them on as lightly as his own merciful nature prompted, 
to every roar the wretch uttered answering, ‘ ‘ Ilould yer 
tongue, ye spalpeen, or I’ll give the lash to some one who 
will be afther laying it on a dale heavier than I do.” 

Indeed Benson was mercifully spared, seeing that ho had 
no right to expect to get off with his life. The lash hurt 
him but little. The matter of shaving his head, which 
Denis scrupulously exacted, and which occasioned him and 
nis fellows no small degree of merriment, was, in fact, the 
most bitter part of his punishment, as will be seen later. 

No sooner had the mob dispersed than Sarsfield, quietly 
seated with Miss O’Neill, proceeded to examine the papers. 
They proved to be a packet of letters that had passed 
between himself and William’s favorite page, Harding, from 
which it appeared that not only was Benson contriving to 
break off all prospect of a union between Florence and Sir 
Keginald, but liad also offered himself as a spy on the move- 
ments of the General in Limerick, and unless fortunately 
recognized by the brother of Denis, should very probably 
have caused much mischief to good Father Lawson, now an 
inmate, for the time being, in the house of Catherine O’Neill. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


53 


CHAPTER VII. 

TEE baronet’s PRESENTATION. 

)UR candid opinion now, my dear uncle, of 
William of Orange ? ” said Florence, watch- 
ing with whimsical curiosity certain minute 
preparations Sir Charles was making for pre- 
senting himself at Kensington the evening after his first 
introduction to the king. 

The baronet appeared embarrassed, and replied, testily : 

“What makes you so curious? The king received mo 
courteously enough, child. Is it not a mark of his royal 
favor that I spend this evening in his banqueting room ? I 
should not be surprised, Florence, if a favor of the same 
kind is shown you by queen Mary, who, perhaps, is more 
gracious after all than you take her to be, and even, in 
time, make a convert of Florence O’Neill.” 

“ Yes, truly,” and Florence smiled somewhat contemptu- 
ously, ‘ ‘ Mary would be very gracious to me if she eould 
see into my heart ; why, it positively makes me unhappy 
to think thao my lips must press the woman’s hand.” 

“ Suppose I were to whisper a few words in the king’s 
car concerning your disloyalty, do you think you can trust 
me?” 

“ Yes, dearest uncle,” and she affectionately kissed the 
forehead of the venerable old man as he prepared to depart, 

I can trust you, because you love me far too well to betray 
me; and, moreover, understand, I have read your secret. 
You dislike the Dutch King, though you will not own it, 
perhaps, even to yourself.” 

“Ah, you are a saucy girl,” said Sir Charles, parting 
back the sunny tresses of his nicce^ ‘ ‘ how can you read my 
5 * 



54 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


secret thoughts r AVhy, I tell you, I think myself highly 
honored, that I, a simple baronet, have the entree to Wil- 
liam’s presence afforded me.” 

“Especially, as you feel quite convinced,” replied the 
aggravating Florence, “ that Dutch William has a keen eye 
to gain broad acres, and widely spread influence, simple 
baronet though you be.” 

Sir Charles made no reply, but, anxious to close the con- 
versation, hurried from the room, while Florence, relapsing 
for a few minutes into a musing attitude, drew her writing 
materials before her and wrote as follows : 

Dear Mrs. Robinson : 

I beg you to tell your husband that I shall certainly be with him 
on the morning after the arrangements now pending shall have 
been completed, provided you can yourself undertake to accom- 
pany me to your house. I, on my part, expect to have communica- 
tions to make, which, doubtless, will bo valuable to absent friends. 

Yours, in all friendship, 

Elizabeth Fitzgerald. 

This courteously worded epistle, signed and directed under 
feigned names, Florence then carefully sealed and despatched 
to Mrs. Ashton’s house in Covent Gt.. den, and for the next 
half-hour this daring young lady, without a thought as to 
the troubles she might be weaving for herself, by mixing 
herself up with this cons{)iracy, amused herself by thinking 
over the few words that had passed between herself and the 
baronet, which together with certain little points, clearly 
showed her that her uncle did not admire what he had 
observed in the king’s character, enough to mako him 
resigned at changing the tactics of his whole life. And 
though she could not get him to speak out, she was aware 
he was restive under the mirthful spirit with which she 
chose to force on him, her conviction, that in spite of the 


THE SIEGE OF LIxMERICK. 


honor he prated about ho had seen nothing in the Dutch 
King to warrant his espousal of his interests. 

Meanwhile, the Queen had anxiously expected the arrival 
of the churlish old man, whom her father had never been 
able to lure from the seclusion and sports of his country 
home, and was also curious to receive the beautiful niece 
whom she knew had long been the favored protegee of Mary 
of Modena, for she was aware of her betrothal to St. John, 
and trusted by artfully bringing the two in close contact 
with each other, to be enabled to break through the barrier 
which had been opening up between them, prevent the 
return of Florence to the court of the exiled Queen, and 
attach her to her own person, for Mary really designed 
appointing Florence to the post of one of her maids of 
honor, with the idea that eventually all the secrets of the 
little court at St. Germains, and the hopes and fears of her 
father and his consort would be laid open to herself. 

However, let us return from our digression, and accom- 
pany the baronet to the presence of William the Third. 
The king was always sparing of speech and singularly taci- 
turn to those about him. When at his meals his manners 
were disgusting to others ; and the irritable spirit of the old 
baronet chafed within him as he observed Lord Clarendon, 
who had accompanied him thither, take his stand behind 
the king’s chair, beckoning Sir Charles to follow his 
example by occupying the same situation. 

No word did William ever speak on occasions like the 
present, nor was it his custom to invite the proudest nobles 
in the land to sit down and eat : their master and their con- 
queror he deemed himself to be, and their place was behind 
his chair, the neglected witnesses of his meal. 

With feelings of intense disgust. Sir Charles regarded 
the King, inwardly cursing the folly which had brought 


56 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


him thither, for ii^ vain had he awaited the honor of a 
word ; hut no — not one had escaped the lips of William of 
Orange. 

The old gentleman stood long a disgusted witness of the 
scene before him, and during the time occupied in the dig- 
niSed employment assigned to himself, he mentally ex- 
claimed : 

“ Marry, hut it just serves me right, I am hut justly met 
with, what business had I to be here at all, instead of 
making merry with friends and tenants at Merville Grange ? 
Or if at nearly four score years of age, I must needs be fool 
enough to meddle with politics, then why not devote my 
fortune and the remainder of my life in the service of the 
rightful King. - Well, well, a few weeks more and I will 
sec if I cannot make my escape — aye, even if I feign an 
attack of my old enemy the gout, and shut myself up a 
voluntary prisoner in my own house. Anything sooner 
than thus crouch before this Dutchman’s rule. And ” 

But the thread of his meditations was here cut short by 
William rising from his scat, and graciously vouchsafing a 
few words to himself and Lord Clarendon, with some three 
or four noblemen who stood around. On this day. Queen 
Mary had dined alone in her own apartment, on account of 
some trifling indisposition. 

As William was about to retire, as if struck by a sudden 
thought, ho turned to the baronet, saying : 

“ You have a niece living with you at present Sir Charles, 
she is betrothed, we understand, to Sir Reginald St. John 
in 'N\’hosc welfare both the queen and myself arc warmly 
interested. Her Majesty, you have already been informed 
will grant her an audience on the morrow. See that you 
do not neglect to bring her to the queen.” 

Then awaiting no reply, William passed on, followed by 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


57 


two or three of the most intimate of his Dutch friends 
amongst whom was his favorite gentleman, Walter Harding. 

Comfortably ensconsced in his own private closet, the 
king now reclined at his ease in a luxurious, richly carved 
chair, covered with crimson velvet, 

English magnates were no longer present, and with his 
Dutch friends and the favored Englishman, Harding, Wil- 
liam could at last relax and deem it allowable to discard the 
restraints of royalty, and quaffing off his favorite liquor, 
Holland gin, which the English nobles lately in his presence 
would scorn to touch, passed what were, no doubt, the 
pleasantest hours of the day. 

But on this occasion it was with one particular person 
that William had to do ; and beckoning the favorite to his 
side, his grave countenance wearing a most gracious smile, 
William exclaimed, eagerly rubbing his hands together ; 

“ Now, then, Harding, what have you to tell me about 
the vagaries of that fool Benson ? Speak out at once, man. 
I should not be surprised to hear that the wretch has come 
to evil by putting himself in the lion’s den, if your infor- 
mation was correct, that Sarsfield really had him in his 
power, but out upon the fool, why did he take on himself 
to play the spy, if he was so dull wittcd that ho could not 
act his part better? ” 

“Ah, your Majesty, I bog you to spare him,” replied 
Harding, “ his wits would have saved him well enough, but 
a cruel mishap prevented him from serving his royal master 
as he could have wished. I will bring him to your presence 
a little later ; he has been waiting in one of my apartments 
for several hours, in order to beg your Majesty’s pardon for 
(ho awkward way in which he executed his mission ; but, 
indeed, he has undergone the roughest treatment, and nar- 
rowly escaped with his life.” 


58 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL ; OE, 


“A good thing had he lost it.” was the ill-tempered 
reply, ‘'if he could not do his work better. Make no 
excuses, but tell me the contents of the papers which I hear 
have fallen into Sarsfield hands. 

For a moment Harding hesitated as though afraid to 
excite the wrath of William, but the keen eyes of the king 
were fixcd’steadily upon him as he quaffed off another glass 
of Holland. Somewhat intimidated, Harding answered 
truthfully from fear lest Benson, when questioned by the 
king, should betray him. 

“ I pray your Majesty’s forgiveness if I have done amiss, 
but out of pure affection for my friend St. John, Benson 
has been zealously endeavoring to break off the proposed 
union between him and the Lady Florence O’Neill, She 
cares not to become Lady St. John, your majesty^ for he 
tells me she has quarrelled with him for his loyalty to your 
gracious self. And might I aspire so high,” added Har- 
ding, ‘ ‘ I doubt not but that I could have the wit and the 
power, too, to win the lady’s love, and make her, disloyal 
as she is, one of the most loyal in your majesty’s dominions.” 

“You are an impudent knave and full of conceit,” said 
William, *' and fancy great things of your handsome person 
to think you may look so high, but remember the lady is of 
high birth, and proud of her descent, if all that is said of 
her be true. Moreover, I have heard you say you arc 
under obligations to Sir Bcginald, and yet, under the rose, 
you are trying to rob him of the lady. But enough,” he 
continued, languidly, “ she is not to be won by you. Finish 
quickly ; what more of Benson ?” 

“ Ah, your Majesty, I have the worst to tell yet. He 
had papers on his person when the brutal mob got hold of 
him, one of whom formerly knew him in London as a perse- 
cutor of the Papists, and, unfortunately, recognized him in 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


59 


Limerick, aud these papers, from various Lauds, your 
majesty,’' added Le, for the king’s eyes rested on his coun- 
tenanee, as if he doubted the truth of his words, “ these 
papers alluded, it is true, to the offer he had made of becom- 
ing a spy on the movements of the St. Germains party in 
Limerick, and — and they are all in the hands of Sarsficld, 
together with a paper accepting his offers of services by one 
of your majesty’s officers.” 

“Bring me in the wretched fool,” said William, his 
accents almost guttural with rage. “Let me see him 
instantly,” he added, and Harding, leaving the room, in a 
few moments reappeared, ushering in the soi-cZisaui Layton. 

“ You fool,” said the king, “ it would have served you 
right if you had lost your head for your folly in meddling 
with concerns beyond your power of management. I hope, 
old as you are, that they punished you in some fashion, if 
only as a penalty for the folly which prevented you from 
serving our interests better.” 

“ Ah, spare me, your Majesty,” said Benson, sinking on 
his knees; “ surely I could not help being recognized by 
one whom ill -fortune threw in my way some years since.” 

The frown which had set on William’s countenance had 
gradually relaxed, notwithstanding the furious mood he was 
in when Benson entered his presence. lie had seen this 
man before with straight white locks falling over his fore- 
head, but now that venerable head was graced with a wig, 
powdered indeed, but a veritable wig nevertheless, and it 
made him look quite a different personage. Again, there 
was something inexpressibly ludicrous in the whole bearing 
of the man, his rueful look, his pale countenance, and the 
trembling servility with which he crouched at William's 
feet, that the latter was moved to such a degree of merri- 
ment, that he was fairly convulsed with laughter, to the no 
small mortification of the kneeling Benson. 


GO 


FLOllENCE O’NEILL; OE, 


“Why, you foolish knave,” ho said, when his laughter 
had subsided, “ what has made you disguise yourself, you 
are too old at fourscore years to indulge in vanity.” 

“No, your Majesty,” said Harding, really pitying the 
discomfiture of the wretched being, “lam sure your 
Majesty will pity Benson when I tell you the wretched mob 
who assaulted him in the house at which he had taken 
refuge, though they left him in possession of his head, 
shaved off his white locks and most mercilessly applied the 
lash to his shoulders, exulting in the torment they inflicted 
and making merry over his annoyance, whilst they shaved 
his head out of pure rage, beeause to disguise himself ho 
had put on an unpowdered brown wig.” 

Gazing contemptuously on Benson, the king, whose mirth 
had again given way to anger, exclaimed : 

“ Fool, it would almost have served you right had Sars- 
field ordered them to take off your head for your folly in carry- 
ing papers of such importance in your pockets. To your 
feet man, and get out of my sight; I pity you, indeed, 
why, they gave you a much lighter punishment than you 
deserved ; they ought to have punished you for me.” 

As William spoke thus, the miserable Benson arose and has- 
tened, by no means unwillingly, though perfectly astounded, 
out of the presence of the king. Indeed, his reception was 
not of the kind he had expected, though at the same time, 
he had feared a sharp rebuke for his imprudence in keep- 
ing about his person papers of such importance as those we 
have alluded to. 

Ingratitude, however, to those who served him, was one 
of the chief ingredients in the character of the king, his 
brutal remark concerning the Calvinist Walker, is a proof 
of this vice. The Protestant party were justly disgusted at 
the speech of the ungrateful king, for on one of them tell- 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


61 


iiig him that Parson Walker was amongst the slain in the 
melee at the Boyne, the coarse and unfeeling reply, was, 
^Vhy did the fool go there This then, was the tribute 
which he paid to the memory of the man to whom he owed 
so much, and who had gallantly defended Londonderry. 
Nor may the siege of Waterford be passed by, for when he 
was asked in what way the sick and wounded prisoners 
should bo disposed of, the savage answer was, ‘^Burn themy 
One thousand of these unfortunates were thus destroyed by 
the place in which they were cooped up shortly afterwards 
bursting into flames.* 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ES, it is quite true that the king’s troops are 
in so miserable a condition, that one-third 
of them could not be relied upon, if Tyreon- 
nell upon his arrival were to give them a 
pistole each,” said a fine looking young man in military 
uniform, in answer to the remarks of a brother ofiiccr, who 
had but recently joined William’s forces in Ireland. 

“ I am surprised to hear there is such an amount of dis- 
alTection,’^ replied our old acquaintance. Sir Reginald, “or 
that party feeling ran so high in favor of James, even in 
Ireland, but really I am getting disgusted at the paltry 
means that are being resorted to, to strengthen the hands 
of the king's government ; from all quarters the same tales 
arc rife ; the most nefarious subterfuges are used to bring 
over wavering adherents of the Stuart race.” 

“ Why, St. John,” exclaimed his companion, in a tone of 
unfeigned surprise, “ I should have thought you the last 

»:Macrherson, State Papers. 

0 




G2 


FLOIiENCE o’nEILL; OH, 


man oa earth to be very particular as to huw the party 
whose interests you espouse, should prosper, when we 
remember recent doings at Limerick.” 

The hot blood rushed to the temples of St. John, and 
with his hand on the hilt of his sword, he replied : 

“ ’Sdeath, sir! w'hat do you mean by such a remark. 
What do X cither know or care about what is going on in 
Limerick ? I, who this night for the first time in my life, 
have seen this place, and have but within this short two 
hours arrived from Kinsale. 

“ My dear St. John,” replied the young officer, placing 
his hand in a familiar and irritating manner on his friend’s 
shoulder, ‘ ‘ can you for one moment attempt to lead me to 
suppose that you are ignorant of all the fine things that have 
lately been done in your name to the unspeakable annoyance 
of Miss O’Neill’s relations in Limerick ! Own the truth,” 
continued Seymour, the once sworn friend of Sir Reginald, 
“and say that you have forsworn the beautiful Papist, 
Florence O’Neill, whose heart is even now with the 
Jacobite crew at St. Germains, for the godly William of 
Orange, who has come to save our lives and Protestant 
faith and liberties, and from pure disinterestedness has taken 
his father-in-law’s crown for himself.” 

“Have done with your taunting gibes, Seymour, and 
come to the point at once ; explain in what way my name 
has been used, and tell me who has dared say anything 
against my betrothal with the lady Florence.” 

The spirit of mischief had evidently taken possession of 
the naturally mirthful Seymour, for after having, to the 
unspeakable disgust of St. John, given vent to the risible 
faculties in a hearty burst of laughter, he replied : ‘ ‘ You 
have an intimate friend, named Benson, St. John, a canting 
old knave, forgive the expression, and ” 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


63 


“ Ah, Benson, what about him, he left me some two 
months since, to make a journey into Wales, to visit some 
relations; he has not been to Ireland for many years.” 

“ Indeed,” said Seymour, vainly attempting to repress 
another burst of laughter, really now this is too ridiculous, 
do you mean to deny St. John, that you do not know that 
he offered himself to the military authorities of this town 
as a spy on General Sarsfield’s movements; that you even 
deputed him to be the means of conveying the intelligence 
to the family of Miss O’Neill, that your opinions and feel- 
ings were so wedded to the cause of William of Orange 
that you had eventually broken the chains which had hitherto 
subsisted between you, and which for some time past, have 
become weaker and weaker ? To sum all up in a few words ; 
you arc said by him to have led Harding to write to Benson 
in your name, requesting him to further the good cause by 
every means in his power, to gain admission to the maternal 
aunt of Florence O’Neill, resident at Limerick, and through 
her to become a spy on the actions of the General and his 
party, avowing also your regret that you had suffered the 
charms of her beautiful face to draw you aside from the 
allegiance you owe to William and Mary. Moreover, you 
express an eager desire to redeem past errors by offering 
your services as speedily as possible to our commanding 
officers in this place. Such, my dear fellow,” added Sey- 
mour, “ to corroborate all, here you arc in your own per- 
son ; but forgive my ill-timed merriment, for I see that an 
ill use has been made of your name. But really, when I 
remember the finale, and Benson’s exit from the house of 
Miss O’Neill, which set all Limerick in an uproar, it is 
exceedingly hard to repress another burst of laughter.” 

“ For heaven’s sake, Seymour, be quiet,” said St. John, 
“ and tell me the whole truth : for some enemy has been at 


64 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


work, over and above the vile miscbief-making Benson, 
whom I am determined shall not have the opportunity of 
meddling with my affairs in future.” 

Seymour then narrated in his own way those circumstances 
with which the reader is already acquainted, relative to the 
capture of Benson, or Layton, as for the sake of disguise, 
he had chosen to call himself, together with an account of 
the summary punishment inflicted on him at the hands of 
the mob. 

It were, of course, vain to attempt to describe the 
wounded pride, mortiflcation and anger with which St. John 
listened to all he had to say, or his pleasure on hearing of 
the punishment of his villainous ex-preceptor Benson. For 
a few moments he was silent, then he said : 

“ Farewell, Seymour, for awhile, before an hour Is over 
I shall be on my way to Limerick.” 

“To Limerick!” ejaculated his friend, “ why it is the 
head-quarters of General Sarsfleld.” 

“Exactly so, and also the dwelling-place of the Gen- 
eral’s cousin. Miss O’Neill. 

“ And in your present mood, I shall not be surprised to 
hear of a defeetion, for it is not unlikely you may And your 
way to Sarsfleld himself,” said Seymour, with a significant 
glance at St. John’s dejected countenance. 

“ Keep your surmises to yourself Seymour, I have been 
foully wronged as you well know, and ” 

“ True enough,” was the reply, “ and as I am your 
sworn friend, I say nothing and keep my thoughts locked 
within my own breast, but I tell you, Reginald, I am morally 
certain that a very short time hence King William will hear 
that the cousin of the aged St. John, the supporter of the 
commonwealth, hitherto so devoted to his interests, has passed 
over with many others to the ranks of the exiled James.” 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


65 


CHAPTER IX. 

an unusual degree of outward calmness 
composure, which she was^ however, far 
a feeling, Florence prepared to accompany 
uncle to the palace : on arriving at which 
she was at once shown into a small ante-room, commu- 
nicating with the boudoir of the queen. 

This, the favorite sitting-room into which Mary had been 
ushered, was hung with pale blue silk, the draperies and 
curtains festooned and looped with silver, the ottomans and 
couches being also of the same color and material. Tables 
of curiously inlaid wood supported vases of precious metals ; 
some were filled with the choicest exotics, others exhaled an 
almost oppressive odor from die perfumes burning within 
them, so that as Florence entered the apartment a sense of 
faintness stole over her, but she remembered the necessity 
there was for calmness and composure in the presence of 
the queen; and, leaning on the arm of Lord Clarendon, 
with a cheek only a shade paler, perhaps, than usual, the 
heiress of the O’Neills approached Mary with a firm step, 
and graeefully kneeling, pressed to her lips the small white 
hand so graciously extended, though her heart was all with 
Mary of Modena. 

Still there was a something in the presence of Mary of 
England which fascinated Florence in spite of herself. 
“She is a Stuart certainly, notwithstanding her grievous 
sins ; she is so like our beloved king, her father,” mused 
the girl for one short moment, during which the queen, with 
sweet soft words, requested her to bo seated. 

Yes, there were the features of the unfortunate line of the 
Stuarts strongly delineated on Mary’s oval countenance, and 
G* 



66 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


as the eyes of Florence fell on her tall and still graceful 
form, her pleasing and regular features, and air of quiet 
dignity, they fell beneath the scrutiny of those dark, spark- 
ling eyes, bent so curiously and with so strict a scrutiny 
upon herself. 

“ I wish I might dare to love you,” thought Florence, as 
her eyes met those of the queen. 

“ I must be wary, and use you for my own ends, for you 
arc my step-mother’s favorite,” was the thought of Mary of 
England. 

Graciously, too, did the queen welcome the baronet. 
Then, after a few common-place observations, she hazarded 
the remark: “ You have been some time at St. Germains; 
how fared it with my father when you left France?” Then, 
as if suddenly recollecting herself, conscious that her words 
might seem to bear a different meaning than that which she 
wished to express, she added, whilst the slightest percepti- 
ble color mantled her cheek, “ I mean is his health good, as 
also that of his consort ?” 

“ His majesty was well, and also my gracious mistress,” 
said Florence ; “ and pleased, indeed, will they be to hear 
that I, already so favored by their notice, should also have 
been honored by your majesty’s gracious reception of ray poor 
self.” 

“ And you do not meditate a return to St. Germains ?” 
said Mary, fixing her eyes with a penetrating glance on the 
features of Florence, as though she would read her very 
thoughts. “ But no, that cannot be, if rumor speaks cor- 
rectly, for it is said that you are betrothed to Sir Reginald 
St. John, one of the most favored of our beloved lord and 
consort ; nay, our royal favor has been sought in this mat- 
ter ; but of that later. We know that Sir Reginald is of 
himself deserving, and we sec that the lady he has chosen 


THE SIEGE OP LIMERICK. 


67 


has even more than her fair share of woman’s charms ; but, 
as we have already said, we will speak of this later, at a 
more fitting time, and then devise measures for your nup- 
tials, and make arrangements, it may be, for your future 
well-being near our own person.” 

Then turning to her uncle. Lord Clarendon, Mary entered 
into a long and animated discussion respecting the contem- 
plated departure of the king, leaving Florence a prey to any 
but pleasurable emotions. Had she dared to express the 
feelings of her heart she could not have done so, for Mary 
had purposely contrived her speech cunningly enough, 
leaving her no room to expostulate, assuming for granted 
that she was graciously furthering the most ardent desires 
of the girl’s heart, and so closing her speech as to afford 
Florence no chance of escape, without being guilty of the 
most flagrant breach of etiquette by interrupting the queen 
whilst speaking, or rudely breaking in when she was 
addressing the Earl. In fact, Florence was marvelously 
like some wretched fly, when securely trammelled in the 
spider’s web, and every effort was now exerted to throw a 
veil of dissimulation for the present over her own conduct, 
and to govern well her outward bearing, in order that no 
trace of the inward anxiety she endured should escape her, 
and be evidenced in the expression of her features. 

But Mary was far too penetrating in her judgment, and 
too clear-headed to be at all deceived. Her speech had been 
artfully contrived. She knew well one of the most ardent 
admirers of the unfortunate Mary of Modena had knelt 
unwillingly at her feet, that she had broken off her proposed 
union with Sir Keginald solely because the latter was 
attached to her court, that the girl’s whole heart was centred 
in the weal of the exiled James, and that she was anxiously 
looking forward to the time of her return to St. Germains. 


68 


FLORENCE o’nEILL J OR, 


But the queen had resolved she should not see St. Ger- 
mains again if she could help it, that she should marry Sir 
Reginald, and, moreover, little by little, she would manage 
to extort, having first gained access to her heart by the 
exercise of all those blandishments of which she was mis- 
tress, a full account of all that was passing in France. 

It remained, however, for time to show whether the 
queen could so easily manage her new prey as she supposed ; 
but be that as it may, the latter felt, when too late, that she 
had played a rather dangerous game in coming to London, 
or, being there, by failing to preserve the strictest incog- 
nito ; and still more embarrassed was she when, at the 
moment of parting, Mary, with the same gracious tone and 
manner, addressing herself to the baronet, said : 

“ You will not forget. Sir Charles, that we shall use all 
our influence to promote this affair of the nuptials of your 
niece. We have felt much interested in the Lady Flor- 
ence, in consequence of the reports which have reached our 
ears of her beauty and worth ; and ascertaining from the 
king that Sir Reginald has but recently left the metropolis 
for Ireland, have obtained his promise that he shall be at 
once summoned back to England.” 

Much as Florence wished to speak she dared not, but 
merely bowed her acknowledgments, whilst the baronet was 
profuse in his thanks for the interest the queen evinced in 
her welfare; and with a heart full of gloomy apprehensions 
for the future, Florence accompanied her uncle back to his 
residence. 

Alone in her boudoir, the queen moodily watched their 
departure, accompanied by her uncle, the Earl of Claren- 
don, and with compressed lips and fingers, nervously 
clutched together, she exclaimed, aloud : 

“ Well met, a pretty trio i’faith. In the girl I take some 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


69 


little interest, and will mould her to my will ; hut if she 
prove rebellious — well, aye, what then ? Suppose she is of 
a stubborn nature. Yet, no ; with this St. John daily, 
hourly beside her, she will become all I wish to see her, a 
willing tool in my hands. She does not like my proposal, 
however, for I saw the color in her cheeks come and go 
when I spoke of her staying here, and of my hastening her 
nuptials. And as to you, my beautiful uncle,” continued 
the queen, with increased irritation, as she beheld Lord 
Clarendon passing through the court-yard beneath her win- 
dow, “I have you fast, and will take care you are safely 
caged in the Tower, if in the slightest way you are found to 
have any share in this new conspiracy, a rumor of which 
has reached us, and in which your name is coupled with 
that of fair mistress Florence and others we had thought 
affected to our persons, and if” . 

“Aye, indeed, if they are guilty let them have such 
mercy as they deserve,” said the voice of William of 
Orange, who, unobserved, had entered the boudoir and 
overheard the soliloquy of the queen. “ I tell you, Mary,” 
said William, “ to watch Clarendon well, and do not suffer 
his relationship to yourself to mar the ends of justice. Trust 
me, he is not faithful to our interests.” 

“ I know it,” said Mary, fixing her eyes reproachfully on 
her husband, “ but do not speak to a wife devoted and ten- 
der as myself of any thought of family connections being 
suffered to clash with the duty which I owe to you. Ah, 
my beloved one,” she continued, clasping her husband’s 
hand tenderly within her own, “ cared I ever for my own 
kindred when i/ou were concerned ; cared I even for the 
father of whom I was the most indulged and favored child ; 
have I not ever been the most dutiful and submissive wife, 
and when T had left home and kindred for you, did I not 


70 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


soon tear from my heart, whether at your bidding or not, 
every emotion of old home affection, not given to you, so 
that I might be more truly and entirely yours ? ” 

“Well, yes, I must give to you the praise you have 
deserved, and own you have done your duty in my regard,” 
said William. “ I have found you generally faithful in 
these points, and when remiss a few words of admonition 
have sa you in the right path again, though remember, for 
your caution, if ever tempted to err again in this regard, 
that I encountered difl&culty with you in days gone by.” 

The fine eyes of Mary filled with tears as again she gazed 
reproachfully on her husband. 

“ All, my best beloved,” she said, “ remind me not of 
my former shortcomings, which, God knoweth, I have long 
since bitterly atoned for by many a tear in the long hours of 
your absence from my side. I tell you once more that Claren- 
don shall suffer severely should we find him in the slightest 
way implicated in this rising. Small mercy shall he meet 
with, any more than if he were an alien to my blood; or, 
indeed, the fair Florence O’Neill either, should she be 
involved or mixed up with mischief, as the protegee of my 
gracious step-mother is most likely to be.” 

“ Ah, indeed, and pending that matter of the girl,” said 
the king, “ I have sent to Ireland to require the immediate 
return of St. John, and if it be true that she has dared 
refuse him for his known fidelity to myself, it will be matter 
for conjecture as to what course she will now pursue.” 

“Poor fool,” said Mary, laughing, “did I not dislike 
her for the unwarrantable prejudice she presumes to enter- 
tain against us, I could almost have pitied the agitation 
she suffered when I spoke of our interesting ourselves to 
hasten her wedding, and that you had summoned St. John 
hither. She played her part well, but is too unsophisticated 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


71 


to liavo gained the mastery over her features. Indeed, the 
mistress whom she almost adores, for she regards Mary of 
Modena, I have been told, with feelings little short of 
veneration, has taught her no lesson on that point, for she 
herself is the creature of impulse, as your majesty well 
knows, and by look, or word, or hasty exclamation, is sure 
to discover to the world all she feels ; and no small wonder 
that this minion, who holds her in such veneration, imitates 
the idol at whose shrine she bows. But I will watch her 
well and closely, and if I find foul play to your interests, my 
liege, depend on it, your loving wife will not spare her power 
to avenge and punish, whether the transgressor be Claren- 
don, in whose veins my own blood flows, or the fair descend- 
ant of the O’Neills, on whoso face I never looked till now.” 

Thus spoke the wife of William of Orange, now bidding 
adieu for a few hours to the man at whose word she had 
forsworn every other tie, and trampled under foot the holiest 
affections of our nature. It is a historical fact that it was 
the constant aim of William to root out of her heart every 
natural emotion ; and well did he succeed, for she soon 
imbibed the naturally cold, apathetic disposition of her hus- 
band, and centred all her ambition in deserving the epithet 
of a humble and obedient wife,* 

It is hard to look back into the records of the time at 
which we write and not feel indignation at the subservient 
devotedness of this misguided princess, who whilst she 
deliberately crushed every emotion of filial affection beneath 
her feet, carried her attachment to her husband on a maud- 
lin sentimentality, servile in her submissivencss, and idola- 
trous in her love of one who, cold as was his nature, had a 
wanner spot in his heart for another than his wife, and who, 
to say the least, was but a cold and indifferent husband. 


* Vide Smollet’s History. 


72 


FLOllENCE o’nEILL; OH, . 


CHAPTER X. 

BITTERLY cold night was that of the 29tli 
of December, in the year 1691. A cutting 
northeast wind, united to a fall of snow, 
which had become heavier as the short winter 
day waned on, and to which, in the earlier part, was added 
a somewhat thick fog, had conspired to render the previous 
day as bitterly inclement and unpleasant to the good cit- 
izens of London as eould well be imagined. 

The wind sighed in long and fitful gusts, and cut across 
the face of the wayfarer as he turned the corner of the 
streets ; it howled amongst the chimney-pots in the old city, 
and made the windows rattle in their frames, and the sign- 
board suspended over the door of the Dog Tavern, on Lud- 
gato street, creaked and flapped heavily as it swayed to and 
fro in the bitter night blast. 

But within the hotel all was warmth and comfort ; the 
huge fire in the kitchen burned brightly in the ample fire- 
place, before which hung a large sirloin, and the red flame 
flickered eheerily on the bright eulinary utensils which 
garnished the kitehen wall. A goodly array of choice 
smoked hams hung suspended from huge hooks in the raft- 
ers that supported the ceiling, and the apparently freshly- 
sanded floor as yet showed not the print of a step from the 
dreary scene without. 

But just as the heavy clock of St. Paul’s tolled the hour 
of nine, two persons entered, clad in large cloaks whitened 
with the heavy snow-storm, and followed by a woman, 
whose dress betokened her to move in the humble walks of 
life, and advancing to the fireside, they stood for a few 
moments enjoying its genial warmth, the men conversing in 



TUB SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


73 


an undertone with the worthy and somewhat huxoni hostess, 
Mistress Warner, who had just entered the kitchen to 
deliver various orders Cfoncerning her expected guests. 

“ You have a private apartment for me, Mistress 
Warner,” said our old acquaintance, John Ashton, whom it 
were easy to recognize, despite the slouched hat drawn over 
his eyes, and the cloak closely buttoned up to the throat, 
with its huge collar pulled up to the chin. 

“ Yes, the green-room is ready,” replied the woman, 
“ and supper shall be on the table at the appointed time. 
Would it not be well, good Mr. Ashton,” she added, “ to 
repair thither immediately.” And sinking the already low 
tones of her voice to a whisper, she continued : 

“ See you not yon party who have just arrived; I do not 
like the air of curiosity with which they regard yourself and 
friends.” 

In fact, two persons had closely followed on the heels of 
Ashton ; in the one, a well-formed, handsome young man, 
we recognize the page, Harding ; in the other, the villanous 
ex-preceptor Benson, not yet by his late recontre in Ireland 
sufficiently afraid of meddling with the affairs of others to 
abstain from playing the part of the informer. Acting on 
tho suggestion of the worthy hostess, Ashton mado a sign to 
his friend, and bade the woman who had accompanied him 
hither follow him to the apartment which Mistress Warner 
had spoken of. Having closed the door, stirred the fire 
into a cheerful blaze, and handed some wine to his com- 
panions, Ashton introduced the female to his friend, Bur- 
dett, by the name of Mrs. Pratt, saying : “ You arc aware 
that mercantile matters require me, with two of my friends, 
to go immediately to France to purchase some bales of 
French silk for one of our city merchants. In order to 
expedite this business, then, Mrs. Pratt, who is a friend of 
7 


7i 


FLOllENCJ;: o’j^EILL; OR, 


the master of a vessel I wish to engage, has met us here 
to-night, and tho owner, Mr. Paseley, will not bo long ere 
ho arrives, and you, Burdett, will, therefore, bo a witness of 
tho bargain wo shall make.” Ashton had scarce finished 
these few words when a low tap at the door announced the 
arrival of the person for whom he was waiting. 

Tho man Paseley was of unprepossessing appearance, 
short and thick set, and an unaccountable impression of 
ilnpending evil shot across Ashton’s heart, as his eyes met 
those of this person fixed on his countenance with a scru- 
tinizing, sinister expression, and which, when they en- 
countered those of Ashton, immediately fell beneath his 
glance. Paseley was, in short, one of those persons who can- 
not look you in the face from an innate consciousness of 
their own villainy. 

At length he said : 

“You want to engage my smack. Sir, at least, so I 
understand from my friend, Mrs. Pratt : may I ask to what 
port you wish to conduct her. 

“ To some one of the seaports of Franco,” replied Ashton. 
“I suppose you already know, from your friend, that 
myself and some two or three other persons are about to go 
thither, to purchase silk and other articles of French mer- 
chandize.” 

Again Ashton noticed the man’s eyes fixed curiously on 
his face, as though he questioned the truth of what ho said, 
and he replied : 

“Well, sir, you shall have the use of my vessel, but 
really I shall expect a large sum for the hire, under exist- 
ing circumstances.” 

“ Under existing cfrcwmstonccs .^ ” repeated Ashton, lay- 
ing a stress on the words the man had used ; “ What do 
you mean? I want to hire your vessel, and you will be glad 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


75 

to have a large sum for its use ; name the amount you 
require.” 

One hundred and fifty pounds,” was the unhesitating 
reply. 

Anxious as Ashton was to secure the vessel, even Tie 
started at the mention of the enormous sum, and after much 
haggling, the stipulated sum was brought down to the still 
enormous amount, if we consider the value of money at the 
time of which we write, of one hundred guineas. It was 
then arranged that Mrs. Pratt, with Burdett and Paseley, 
were to meet on the following morning at the Seven Stars, 
in Covent Garden, an hotel near to Ashton’s place of resi- 
dence, and there conclude the bargain, by depositing the 
money in Paseley’s or Mrs. Pratt’s hands, should the former 
not to able to be there : and the two friends were then left to 
refresh themselves, after a long walk in the inclemency of 
the weather, by the goodly sirloin which Mistress Warner 
served up, flanked by a substantial pastry and a flagon of 
strong home-brewed ale, succeeded by hot spiced wine. 

But let us leave the brave and unfortunate Ashton, whose 
life was sacrificed, as “bur readers will know, in the cause of 
the exiled Stuart race, and in the present ill-omened enter- 
prise, and follow the ill-conditioned Paseley and the woman 
Pratt into the room beneath, in fact, to the kitchen of the 
hotel, in which still remained Benson and the page Walter 
Harding. 

No sooner were the advancing footsteps of Paseley and 
his companion heard, than the two former personages hur- 
ried to meet them, and the sinister countenance of Paseley 
lighted up with a smile full of meaning as he approached, 
and touching Harding on the shoulder, he whispered : 

“ I have news for her Majesty, follow, me.” 

Out into the cold dark night, with the keen north-cast 


76 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


wind blowing full in their faces, together with the driving 
sleet, the crisp snow crackling beneath their feet, and the 
sky as dark as their own hearts, walked the page and the 
preceptor, the master of the smack and his friend, Mrs. 
Pratt, and scarcely had the doors of the hotel closed behind 
them, than the man Paseley advancing to Harding, whis- 
pered : 

‘ ‘ He is prepared to give even as much as a hundred 
pounds for the hire of the vessel; I asked one hundred and 
fifty, thinking it would go far to show whether it were 
wanted for purposes of merchandise or not; as if so, he 
would entertain no idea of hiring it, instead of which he 
demurs a little, and then coolly offers a hundred guineas, as 
if the guineas were but as many shillings, and now I will 
leave Mrs. Pratt to tell her tale, which I am sure will 
strengthen the idea we entertain. Then rejoining the 
woman, Paseley whispered a few words in her ear, she 
nodded assent, and advanced to Harding, while Paseley 
and Benson conferred together in a low tone of voice. 

“Look you, Mr. Harding,” said she, “Mr. Ashton 
offered me one thousand pounds, to be paid down before Lady- 
day, if I helped him to the hiring of this vessel. One 
thousand pounds!” she repeated. “ This is a largo sum, 
and would make a rich woman of Martha Pratt ; yet out of 
love to her gracious Majesty, I give it all up. What do you 
think, Mr. Harding, will Queen Mary do for me? for ’tis 
I and Paseley chiefly, more than yourself and Benson, who 
have helped to the unfolding of this plot.” 

“Now do not alarm yourself. Mistress Pratt,” said 
Harding; “I will take care to represent to her Majesty 
what you have lost in her service, and depend on it, she will 
not forget you. Counton me for standing your friend, and 
rest assured we shall, all of us, receive a rich reward. I 


TUE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


77 


have dogged Ashton repeatedly, I know that he was on 
terms of friendship with Nevill Payne, who suffered torture, 
and has since died from its effects.* Indeed, I remember 
Ashton was with him last April at a Jacobite meeting, held 
at the Globe Tavern, near Northumberland House, and I 
feel convinced that the plot now hatching has some con- 
nexion with the last, and ” 

“ And Ashton is a poor man, remember,” interrupted 
Benson; “ Verily friend Harding, the Lord is making use 
of us, Ilis elect ones, as instruments in Ilis hands for the 

♦Queen Mary and her ministers strove very hard to make the hon- 
orable and high-minded Payne, Jacobite tutor to the young Earl of 
Mar, legal informer regarding this conspiracy, in which many of the 
nobility in Scotland, as well as England, were involved some months 
before it had reached its present height. And later, Mary wrote sev- 
eral letters to the privy Council in Scotland, making ominousenqui- 
ries as to whathad becomeof him. The following, in answer to some 
of these inquiries, was written to the principal minister of her 
Majesty for Scotland, who was then at Court. 

“ To Lokd Melville : 

“Yesterdajq in the afternoon, Nevill Payne was questioned as to 
those things that were not of the greatest concern, and had but gen- 
tle torture given him, being resolved to repeat it this day, Avhich 
accordingly, about six this evening, we inflicted on both his thumbs 
and one of his legs, with all the severity that was con-sistent with 
humanity (?) even to that pitch that we could not have preserved life 
and have gonefurllicr; but without the least success, for his answers 
to all our interrogatories were negative. Yea, he was so manly and 
resolute under his sufferings, that such of the Council as were not 
acquainted with all the evidence, were bungled (hesitated), and 
began to give him charily that he might be innocent. It is surpris-. 
ing to me and others, that flesh and blood could, without fainting, 
endure the heavy penance he was in for two hours. My stomach 
is truly out of time by being witness to an act so far cro.ss to 
my natural temper, that I am fitter for rest than for anything 
else, but the dangers from such conspirators to the person of our incom- 
parable king, have prevailed over me in the Council’s name, to have 
been the prompter of the execution^- to increase the torture to so high a 

pitch.” , ^ . 

The unfortunate Nevill Payne soon afterwards died from the effect 

of these barbaritics.-zS'/ncA^oad’s Life of Mary, 


78 


FLO^vE^x^E o’neill; oe, 


punishment uf Jacobite traitors and false sons of the Eng- 
lish Church, like this Ashton, who are straining every nerve 
to bring back the Popish King, in lieu of the godly William 
and his consort.*' 

‘ ‘ And the thousand golden guineas which he has prom- 
ised me,” chimed in Mrs. Pratt, “ can surely not come from 
himself ; no, doubuess, they are given by friends of the late 
king, as also the money for hiring the vessel. But I tell 
you what, Mr. Harding, unless you bring me to quick 
speech with Queen Mary, I will seek an audience of her 
Majesty myself, for I am quite determined 'she shall know 
how much I am running the risk of losing, in order to 
servo her cause.” 

“ Pray do not alarm yourself unnecessarily, Mrs. Pratt,” 
replied Harding, sharply; “depend on it, their gracious 
Majesties will not suffer your services to go unrewarded ; so 
be at the palace at the hour of noon on the morrow, and I 
will crave an audience for you.” 

By this time they had reached the Strand, and separated, 
Harding to return to his apartments at the palace, the 
entrance to which he obtained, as the hour was somewhat 
late, by means of a pass-key, intending to usher Benson in 
with him, and Paseley and the woman Pratt to their respec- 
tive lodgings in the neighborhood of Covent Garden. 





THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


79 


CHAPTER XT. 

A SECESSION. 

jAIX domiciled with his cousin, Isabel O’Neill, 
the brave and worthy Sarsfield was com- 
pelled, for a time, sorely against his will, to 
yield to the effects of a violent cold, and became 
almost rampant under the restraint to which he had been sub- 
jected ; for he hadbeen confined to his bed during three entire 
days, at the expiration of which, finding himself somewhat 
recovered, no solicitation could prevail on him to remain 
quiet and inactive ; so rising some time before the hour of 
noon, clad in a loose dressing gown, and his pleasant face a 
shade paler than usual, the General was ready to sec and be 
seen by any who might wish to confer with him on matters 
of business. 

A visitor, however, awaited him of whoso arrival belittle 
dreamed, and his astonishment may be better imagined than 
described when Sir Reginald St. John presented himself 
before him. 

Sir Reginald was, indeed, personally a stranger to the 
General, though known to him by repute, and the same 
repute had informed him that he was a brave and skillful 
officer, a devoted adherent of William of Orange, inherit- 
ing, in every respect, the principles of his now aged father, 
the former inflexible and stern upholder of the Common- 
wealth, 

Sarsfield drew himself up to his full height, and looked 
inquiringly at his visitor, almost doubting the reality of his 
presence, certainly never dreaming for a moment that the 
right arm and sword of St. John wore now at the command 
of James the Second. 



80 FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR; 

Yet so it was, for, advancing forward, St. John ex- 
claimed : 

“General Sarsfield, I am willing to serve under your 
command, and I offer to fight in defence of the rights of his 
majesty. King James, now in exile at St. Germains.” 

“Is it possible,” exclaimed Sarsfield; “do I hear 
aright ? Keport has spoken of you. Sir Reginald, as one of 
those who were singularly disaffected to the government of 
King James, as of one, in fact, who trod faithfully in the 
steps of his ancestors; but, believe me, I seek not to 
analyze the motives which have brought to our aid the 
sword of so gallant an officer, I ask you only have you 
counted on the certain loss you must inevitably sustain 
when your defection becomes known ?” 

“ I have done so, General, and am well content to abide 
the issue,” replied Sir Reginald. “ I shall lose my estate, 
which will, of course, become forfeit to the government of 
William should he still continue to wear the crown, which 
I now believe ho unlawfully usurps. Beyond this, I am 
not aware that any grievous calamity awaits me. To bo 
plain, my heart sickens at the sight of the many frauds and 
artifices which are being resorted to for the purpose of 
upholding William’s interests ; nay, more, I have myself 
suffered in this way but recently, my name having been 
unlawfully used, and I represented as having broken the tic 
of betrothal long subsisting between myself and the Lady 
Florence O’Neill.” 

“ But arc you not aware that you have been summoned 
to England, and that Florence has been most unwisely 
introduced to the Court of Mary? ” exclaimed the General. 
“ Her situation is now one of extreme difficulty, for, if I do 
not mistake, she already finds herself in what we may term 
a species of detention ; for, Sir Reginald, you are summoned 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK.* 


81 


to the court as a faithful adherent of William, under the idea 
that Florence will not dare to refuse to wed you, whilst 
herself, closely watched hy the queen, her only refusal to 
consent founded on the supposition that you are true to 
their interests. I had given her credit for more sense,” he 
added, “than to imagine she would so heedlessly throw 
herself into the power of our foes, for, truly, whichever way 
I turn I see only difficulty, for had the summons reached 
you before you came hither, and you had returned as the 
adherent of William, a sorry plight would Florence have 
been in, for Queen Mary intended to appoint an early day 
for your nuptials, and as the case at present stands, though 
my heart rejoices to receive you as a brother in arras, I sec 
no escape for her, as yet, from the mishap and captivity her 
foolish heedlessness has caused ; for much as she will rejoice 
to hear that the cause for estrangement existing between 
you and herself has been so unexpectedly removed, still I 
do not imagine,” he continued, with a smile, “ that Wil- 
liam and Mary would now receive you save as a traitor 
whose disloyalty far exceeds that of Florence herself.” 

“ And is it possible Florence has placed herself in the 
power of Mary,” exclaimed Sir Reginald, with a feeling of 
remorse at his heart, for well he remembered that it was at 
Ms suggestion Sir Charles de Grey had sought the Court of 
William, at a time when his own blind attachment to the 
service of the latter had made him assiduous to gain over as 
many as possible to his cause. 

“ I will leave Limerick at once,” he said, “ and hasten 
back to England, and see her safe beyond the precincts of 
tlie court. They arc full of danger to any persons suspected 
of disaffection to the present government.” 

“ITow?” cxelainied the more cool and cautious Sars- 
ficld. “ Allow me to point out to you the mad folly of such 


82 


rLOEENCE O NEILL; OE, 


an attempt. If Florence is in danger, your presence will 
not save her, and can only result in your own imprison- 
ment. Submit quietly, and trust to the safety of our foolish 
young relative through the influence of her uncle, Sir 
Charles, or some other fortuitous chance turning up in her 
favor.” 

This, then, was the end of Sir Reginald’s journey to Ire- 
land, this, the end of his loyalty and love for AYilliam, the 
cause of his estrangement from Florence. In the course of 
a few days, stung by the base use that had been made of his 
name, of the discreditable actions daily resorted to, St. 
John had resolved on yielding his allegiance elsewhere, and 
secure again the affections of his betrothed ; and now, in the 
home of his maternal aunt, he had become the friend and 
companion of Sarsfield, the valiant opponent of William, his 
very name infusing fresh hope into the hearts of their fol- 
lowers and a terror to his enemies. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A GILDED pniSON. 

did the fair fiancee of Sir Reginald imag- 
ly it was that his return, which she so 
dreaded, was delayed far beyond the time 
ng and queen had expected him. 

The events of the last few weeks had told immensely on 
her health and personal appearance, for though, as yet, 
open restraint had not been resorted to, she yet felt herself 
the victim of a species of espionage exceedingly painful to 
bear. The queen insisted on her presence at court, and her 
thoughtful countenance not unfrcqucntly drew forth many 
.a sally from Mary, who was by no means deficient in the art 



THE SIEGE OF LIMEillCK. 


83 


of making cleverly pointed sarcastic speeches, which showed 
Florence that tho great condescension of the queen was 
little else than assumed. 

The thought of St, John’s return, too, whoso betrothed 
bride she was, filled her with consternation, for then, unless 
she had strength of mind to resist, and Mary would wcdl 
know why she refused to fulfil the contract into which she 
had entered, what a life she must eventually lead? A 
hanger-on at the court of Mary, with the image of tho 
queen’s betrayed father ever before her eyes, never again to 
see her adored mistress, but ever to bow before the throne 
of the queen and pay her homage and obedience. This was 
tho life Florence pictured to herself would be hers, and yet 
she had no power to break the bonds which bound her. 

As to her sentiments, not a word escaped her lips by 
which Mary could be guided, but her clever, penetrating 
mind was not far wrong. She saw daily the smile became 
more languid, the color on the cheek grew paler, the, violet 
eyes would tell a tale of recent tears, and the queen would 
exult in the power she thought she possessed of forcing on a 
marriage between parties with whom, strangely enough, the 
deepest affection was interwoven with strong political feel- 
ing, which had hitherto bid fair to destroy that warmer 
emotion to which wo have alluded. 

Spitefully, then, did Mary note the changes in her coun- 
tenance, and on one occasion when Florence seemed buried 
in deeper thought than usual, Mary observed, as she leant 
over the embroidery frame, tho unbidden tears fall on the 
gay silks she was forming into flowers. Tho tones of tho 
queen’s voice sounded sharp and imperious, and quickly re- 
called Florence to tho remembrance, for the moment for- 
gotten, of tho royal lady in whoso presence she sat, and 
who now commanded harshly rather than requested her to 


84 FI.01iENCE o’nEIEL; OE, 

leave the room on a commission slic wished her to ex- 
ecute. 

“ Minion, ” she angrily exclaimed as the girl’s form van- 
ished from her sight, “ I will punish you yet for the folly 
with which you are acting. She positively dai*cs to brave 
me to my very face, to tell me as plainly as if she did so in 
words, ‘I am betrothed to St. John, but I will not marry 
him, and I dread to see him because he is true to you and 
yours.’ Well, well, we shall see who will be mistress yet. 
Lady Florence, ” said Mary aloud, tapping the floor nervously 
with her foot, and a small red spot glowing on her check, 
for her exaspei’atiou was now at its height, “ to St. Ger- 
mains you never shall return, and it will be well for you, 
should you refuse to wed St. John on his arrival, if the 
home at Kensington, which our condescension has awarded 
you, be not exchanged for a chamber in the Tower, if all 
wo hear of this conspiracy, and in which your namo is 
worked up, be found to be correct.” 

Then the queen laughed and smiled with pleasure at the 
thought that she held Florence at her mercy in her gilded 
prison, and that if she really had meditated a return with 
Ashton and the others to France, that all her plans were 
circumvented, and even as her light steps sounded in her 
car in the ante-chamber without, she murmured to herself: 

Yes, yes; I will force her to own the truth, and should 
my will be resisted, there can be torture inflicted, my 
dainty Mistress Florence, even on limbs as delicate as 
yours. ” Forcing a smile to her lips, for she felt strangely 
nervous and uneasy, Florence re-entered the queen’s closet, 
and gracefully bending her knee presented the queen with 
the article for which she had been sent. For one moment 
their eyes met, and just for that moment the fine features of 
Mary wore an expression strikingly like to her unfortunate 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEilICK. 


85 


father, and for a brief space the girl’s fears were lulled to 
rest, for in that glance there was assumed kindness ; and as 
if anxious to erase from the mind of \iQv protegee all remem- 
brance of her recent harshness, the queen endeavored to 
amuso her by an account of the fine doings with which the 
New Year would be ushered in at Kensington. 

“ Alas, ” thought Florence, “ the New Year at hand and 
I not at St. Germains.” 

At this thought her countenance again wore the look of 
abstraction which so annoyed the queen, and a severe rep- 
rimand already trembled on her lips when William of 
Orange entered the apartment. Instantly rising on the 
king’s entrance, Florence quitted the boudoir. 

“ Something has disturbed you, ” said the queen meet- 
ing William as he advanced towards her. ‘ ‘ Tell mo quickly 
what or who it is that has occasioned you annoyance.” 

“ St. John has gone over to Sarsficld, ” was the reply, and 
William’s voice was guttural from suppressed passion ; ‘ ‘ he, 
the recreant, whom I had the most favored ; he, on whom 
I have lavished every mark of esteem, has ungratefully 
deserted to those who fight for your father.” 

“No, my beloved, it cannot be possible that you have 
met with such ingratitude, ” exclaimed the queen, forgetful 
in her indignation at the defection of Sir Reginald, of her 
own and her husband’s ingratitude to her father. “ Where 
is he? Has ho arrived in England? If so, let him at once 
be arrested.” 

“ In England, indeed ! ” replied William; “ I would that 
he were, we would make him feel the weight of our ven- 
geance; it may reach him yet. No, he is with Sarsfield, 
who has named him his lieutenant, and whose sworn friend 
he has already become, so says my informant, adding that 
St. John was indignant at the way in which his name had 


8G 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL ; OE, 


been used, and by the mischievous wretch, Benson, having 
been placed as spy on the actions of SarsQeld. ” 

“ And think you he had received our summons to return 
to England before ho threw off his allegiance ?” and the 
voice of the queen was husky and tremulous as she spoke. 

“I should think not,” was the reply. '‘Nay, it is 
almost certain that ho must have left headquarters very 
quickly after his arrival, perhaps immediately. What had 
we best do with this girl — this O’Neill — on whose account 
we have summoned him here ? ” 

“Detain her at the palace till we see the issue of the 
present plot. You, my beloved husband, arc obliged almost 
immediately to leave England. Confide to me the task of 
unraveling this knotty web, and of severely punishing its 
ringleaders, however lofty and exalted may be their rank. 
I shall regard this Florence as a prisoner, but treat her as a 
favored proicyce — not allow her to feel her imprisonment in 
its true light, but watch her very closely nevertheless. I 
note every change in her expressive countenance and have 
read every secret of her heart ; she only feared St. John’s 
return because she was resolved not to wed him, minion as 
she is, whilst he was loyal to us. Now she shall know of his 
disloyalty, because the pleasure she would otherwise feci 
will meet with a sting in the reflection that she is with me, 
and that he dare not now claim her for his wife. Really, I 
enjoy, ” added the queen, ‘ ‘ the thought of the new sorrow in 
store for this young fool with a fair face who has presumed 
to make herself the judge as to whether Mary of Modena or 
myself should be her queen, but enough of her; St. John 
is rich, is he not? of course you will see that his estates bo 
instantly confiscated to the crown.” 

“ Steps shall be at once taken for that cud,” said Wil- 
liam, his usually grave and calm countenance disturbed as 


THE SIEGE or LIMEraCK. 


87 


he mused over the defection of St. John, whom ho had 
really favored beyond many others, “ and now be wary and 
not over-indulgent m my absence,” he continued, “for I 
leave you at the helm of government again, and above all 
crush this conspiracy immediately ; do not hesitate to sin- 
gle out for capital punishment the principal offenders, who- 
ever they may be.” 

“I will not be w'anting, my beloved lord,” said Mary, 
“ nor shall I fail to count the days and hours of your 
absence. Truly,” and Mary siglicd wearily as she spoke, 
“ my spirits are out of tune at these constant defections, 
but we must hope the best; our work cannot but be good^ 
as God never fails to send us some little cross.” 

It is laughable enough certainly, but nevertheless per- 
fectly true, that this princess, at the very moment when she 
was really engaged in promoting her own interest and that 
of her fondly-loved consort, by means which were often far 
from good, and at times positively sinful, would quiet her 
conscience, or perhaps strive to do so, by endeavoring to be- 
lieve that it was not her own work she was about, or her own 
empire she was striving to establish, but rather the work of 
Almighty God Himself. 

Then turning to the king, the usual affectionate parting 
took place between them, and Mary sought, in the solitude 
of her own apartment, to devise schemes for bringing 
wholly within her power those who were at the head of the 
present conspiracy, amongst whom she numbered, not 
entirely without foundation, the fair descendant of (he 
O’Neill’s. 


88 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OK; 


CHAPTER XIJI. 

THE CAPTITE. 

Florence left the presence of the queen, 
little thought still greater anxiety vas 
tore for her in the fact that Sir Rcgi- 
, whose arrival she so much dreaded, 
whilst she believed him the adherent of the Dutch Monarch, 
aware that the queen would hurry on her nuptials and retain 
her at her own Court, was really still in Ireland, and, more- 
over, that he was fighting in behalf of the rights of James 
under the command of Sarsfield. 

Not long was she allowed to remain in ignorance of his 
defection from the cause of William; the following morning 
the queen, who was a much better tactitian than the unso- 
phisticated Florence, chose the time wdicn both herself and 
the captive, for such the latter really was, were engaged, 
Florence at the embroidery frame, the queen at the belowcd 
occupation of her leisure moments, knotting fringe, to con- 
vey the starting intelligence to her. 

Though Queen Mary was an inveterate worker, her busy 
fingers in no way weakened her powers of governing during 
the long and frequent periods of the Dutch King’s absence, 
when engaged in carrying on his continental wars, or manag- 
ing his trans-marine possessions. 

But while the queen’s head was bent over her everlasting 
work, the changes in her countenance could not bo dis- 
cerned. She had just parted with William, and her fond 
heart always ached when this was the case ; moreover, day 
after day some startling intelligence, connected with a new 
plot, or fresh conspiracies springing out of the old one, in 
which the unfortunate Ncvill Payne had been engaged. 



TUE SIEGE OP LIMEEICK. 


89 


conspired to ruffle and disturb an equanimity of temper 
which wms too often assumed, as on this occasion, when her 
blood was at boiling heat, concerning the defection of Sir 
Reginald. 

“ I have surprising news for you,” she said ; “ it is not 
likely Sir Reginald will return to London, if he does, he 
will be at once consigned to the Tower.” 

As the queen uttered these ominous words, she observed 
Florence start and turn deadly pale, the needle fell from 
her hand, affection at that moment gaining the day over 
loyalty to the exiled court at St. Germains, and on the 
impulse of the moment, she arose, and casting herself at 
the feet of the queen, her eyes streaming with tears, she 
was as one transformed into the suppliant, exclaiming ; 

To the Tower, gracious Madam, ah I no, no, what evil 
hath ho done ? in the whole realm of England you have not 
a more loyal supporter of your throne than he.” 

“ Your betrothed is a traitor to our cause,” said the 
queen bitterly, “ he has taken up arms under the Jacobite 
General Sarsfield : but why these tears, you exhibited no 
signs of pleasure when I told you the king had summoned 
him hither for his nuptials ; spare your grief now, I shall 
attach you to my own person ; I do not intend you to leave 
the court. I shall not be long before I find a more fitting 
mate for tho heiress of the O’Neill’s than he would have 
been.” 

Then Mary’s handsome face again bent over her frame, 
and a sickly smile sat upon her lips, for well she knew the 
woman sho tormented was in secret pining to return to St. 
Germains. She knew the news of Sir Reginald’s defection 
could bring her no relief, as whilst she was in England it 
would enforce a separation, also that the quarrel between 


90 , 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


them had originated solely in one feeling, that of a deep- 
seated loyalty to her own dethroned and exiled father. 

The queen then exulted in the power she' possessed of 
detaining Florence at court, knowing that whilst she must 
at heart ho pleased at what she had told her, she must 
sorrow more intensely than ever over her adverse fate that 
detained her so unwillingly in London. 

“We are going to be very gay this winter,” continued 
the queen, “ so put a bright face on the change things have 
taken ; nay do not look so lachrymose, child,” and the queen 
put forth her hand to assist her to rise, “the king and 
myself were well pleased to further your interests, by push- 
ing on your marriage with this ungrateful St. John, before 
he had thrown off his allegiance, so have wo those same 
interests still at heart, consequently, I appoint you from 
this moment, one of my maids of honor, and promise you 
a far better spouse than the traitor you have lost; nay, nay, 
he is not worth your tears,” she added, as they fell on the 
hand Florence raised to her lips ere she resumed her scat. 

Scarce conscious, indeed, of what she did, she stood for 
a moment beside Queen Mary’s scat, and forgetful of pru- 
dence and caution, was about to implore her to allow her to 
return to Franco, and have flung back in her face her prof- 
ferred friendship, but even as the words trembled on her 
lips, the queen arose, saying : 

“ Poor Florence, I shall leave you to yourself for the 
next few hours, during which you must grow resigned to 
that which you cannot, by any means, amend, and I shall 
expect you to accompany me to the theatre to-night, as one 
of my ladies in attendance, nay, not a word, it vmst be,” 
she added, “ I am your best friend in not allowing you to 
remain long brooding over your sorrow alone : ” then as the 
queen reached the door, she suddenly paused as if a thought 


THE SIEGE OP LIMERICK. 


91 


had occurred to her, saying: “by the way, did you not 
come to England under the care of one Mr. Ashton, for- 
merly one of the gentlemen of the household of — of the 
late queen?” 

As Queen Mary spoke; the expression of her features 
indicated what was passing in her mind ; there was that 
about her which might well intimidate a young woman 
trameled as Florence now was. The name of Ashton 
awakened all her fears, and as she raised her eyes with a 
troubled expression on her eountenance to that of the queen, 
the very enquiry seemed to paralyze her,, besides, she was 
herself compromised, if the queen knew anything concern- 
ing the conspiracy, so she replied at once in the affirmative. 

“And you were to return to St. Germains under his pro- 
tection in about a week from the present time ? ” 

“Yes, gracious Madam,” said Florence, with some- 
what more of calmness in her manner, “ it was the wish of 
the queen, my mistress, that I should go back to St. Ger- 
mains at Christmas, but Mr. Ashton ” 

“ Had not completed his arrangements,” interrupted the 
queen in an ironical tone enough, ‘ ‘ rumors have reached my 
ears, implicating himself and others, be thankful that you are 
safely attached to the English Court, and have nothing more 
to do with such persons.” 

As the queen spoke, she hastened from the room, and for 
a moment Florence stood in the same position, as one- dazed 
and bewildered under some heavy stroke. 

Then, almost mechanically, she gathered together the gay 
silks and gold thread, with which she was embroidering a 
scarf for the queen, and hastened to her own room. 

“ Fatal, fatal day,” she murmured, “ when the rash idea 
took possession of my poor weak woman’s heart, leading 
me to think that I could benefit those I loved j alas, alas, I 


92 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


have but brought ruin on my own head, and failed to aid 
their cause. Ah, Keginald, and my royal master and mistress, 
what will be your feelings when you hear I am detained at 
Queen Mary’s Court, in truth, but as a captive, whilst she 
feigns herself my friend.” 

“ Was there no way to escape,” she thought, ‘'no, none.” 
Indeed, the only chance for her own personal safety con- 
sisted, she felt convinced, in patiently and quietly submit- 
ting to the will of the queen, aware that it was extremely 
possible she might soon find a home in the Tower, were it 
known that in the slightest way she had interfered in the 
contemplated rising. She knew too how ruthless and deter- 
mined the queen had shown herself, that at the period of 
which we write, on mere suspicion of Jacobitism, it was no 
unusual thing to be apprehended on privy Council warrants, 
at a theatre, a ball, or a party, and be suddenly consigned 
to that gloomy fortress, the Tower. 

Sensitive, haughty, and imperious, the young heiress of 
the O’Neill’s felt acutely her position ; she was to be the 
constant attendant of the queen, unless some fortuitous 
accident released her, compelled to dwell with her as her 
favorite ^jroicyce, but in reality a prisoner under no very 
mild surveillance, separated from Sir Reginald, who had 
now, by his adhesion to James, himself removed the only 
obstacle that had existed to her union, as well as prevented 
from ever returning to St. Germains, whilst no small part 
of her sufifering would arise from the necessity she felt 
existed for hiding it under a cheerful exterior. 

For the present, indeed, 'the queen would excuse her 
tears, as they might be naturally supposed to flow from her 
separation from Sir Reginald; this at the very moment, too, 
when she would have joyfully yielded him her hand. 

“ A round of dissipation is before me too,” sighed sheas 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


93 


she rose wearily from the couch, against which she had 
knelt whilst giving free vent to her anguish, “and poor 
Ashton, how will it fare with him and myself, and Lord 
Preston, if that conspiracy be detected.” 

Shuddering at the thought of incarceration at the Tower, 
to which she knew many had been consigned by the queen 
for lighter suspicion ^han might rest on herself, Florence 
then busied herself in the difficult task of schooling her 
features into calmness, and bathing her eyes, strove to look 
her misfortunes in the face and bear them as bravely as 
possible. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

DETECTION. 

hands of Queen Mary’s watch pointed to 
hour of twelve ; she had noted the pre- 
ss of the last half hour very anxiously, 
people do when they are expecting an 
interview with a person on important business. Royalty, 
however, is rarely kept waiting beyond the time it has 
appointed, thus it was that two minutes after twelve, a tap 
at the door of her closet made her aware that the person 
she had expected had arrived. Von Keppel, the page, 
entered and spoke to the queen, then left the room and 
ushered in Mrs. Pratt. Rather a comely woman she was, 
but with the awe royalty inspires in the uneducated classes, 
she appeared perfectly petrified when she found herself in 
the presence of the queen. 

Mary, however, knew well how to ingratiate herself with 
the people, and putting on a smiling countenance, she said : 



94 


FLORENCE o’nEILL J OR, 


“ I understand you have begged an audienee of me, 
Mrs. Pratt, desiring to speak to me of one Mr. Ashton, 
•who has hired a vessel of some friend of yours, for pur- 
poses against the government, though you are told that it is 
required to carry bales of silk to France ; what has led you 
to disbelieve what you have heard ? ” 

Here the queen paused and fixed her full dark eyes on 
the woman’s faee as if she would search the inmost recesses 
of her heart, 

Martha Pratt, while the queen was speaking, had time to 
overcome her fears, and did not blench beneath the queen’s 
gaze • she replied : 

“ In the first place, your Majesty, our Ashton was too 
anxious about the vessel, for he called on me, who have the 
letting of it, three times ; secondly, he ofiered me five hun- 
dred pounds to get my friend Pasely to let him have it at 
once ; and thirdly, because I found from the king's page, 
that this Mr. Ashton used to be one of the members of the 
household of the late Popish queen ; so when he had gone, 
after calling the third time, for Pasely had refused him his 
smack, wanting to send her to Hull, then said I, ‘ there’s 
another Popish plot at work, and if Pasely does’nt think 
so, but after all let him have the vessel, then by all means 
don’t take his money, Martha Pratt, but let the queen’s 
Majesty know all about it.’ ” 

“ I commend your prudence, my good woman,” said the 
c[uccn, “ meanwhile, I beg you to keep perfectly silent in 
this matter, and if it really be as you suspect, I will not 
fail to more than recompense you for what you will have 
sacrificed by your loyalty to the king and myself : now leave 
me, I will send for you again when I have seen further into 
this business.” 

Again alone, Queen Mary walked up and down her 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


95 


chamber, as one whoso mind is ill at ease. Nearly six 
months since, she had consigned two of her uncles, the 
brothers of her late mother, to the Tower, along with a 
large number of the discontented nobility. As to the impris- 
onment of her own kindred, she talked as pleasantly over 
this “clapping up,” as she did when she robbed her fotlicr 
of his crown. 

The queen’s position was beset with difficulties, she never 
possessed a real friend, whilst she was surrounded by ene- 
mies in disguise. Of partisans serving her for interest she 
had an abundance : she had a sister, it is true, a sister who 
shamefully conspired with herself to expel her father from 
his throne, and who had even given up her own place in 
succession to the Dutch Prince, but even-handed justice had 
brought the poisoned chalice to the lips of the Pr ncess 
A nne for the way in which she was treated by her sister and 
brother-in-law ; so that with divided interests between the 
queen and the princess, there was no bond of sisterly affec- 
tion on which she could lean when apart, as she so often 
was, from her uncouth and boorish husband. 

“ And he absent now,” she says to herself, as she wan- 
ders up and down her spacious chamber, “ on his way to the 
Doync at the time that another plot is on foot for the sub- 
version of our government. That woman Pratt shall be richly 
rewarded, one of the humbler classes she, but possessing a 
fund of shrewd penetration rarely to be met with ; but now 
let me call a council without delay,” she continued, “nip 
this plot in the bud, if possible, and prevent this glorious 
departure to St. Germains, for that, and no other is the 
spot whither these traitors are bound.” A very few hours 
later, the agents of the queen’s government were on the 
track of Ashton, Lord Preston, and others connected with 
the plot for which the young Jacobite, Neville Payne, had 
been so mercilessly tortured some months previous. 


9G 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


Throughout the whole of that day the enraged queen did 
not summon Florence to her presence. It was passed 
partly in the company of her advisers, discussing the man- 
ner in which the ringleaders of this new plot, in favor of the 
restoration of her unfortunate father, should be captured, 
and in filling the Tower and other prisons with captives 
who were under suspicion, upon the queen’s signature alone. 

Slowly the Lours passed away, but no summons came to 
Florence, who had expected to be in attendance on the 
queen that evening, but suspecting, from her conversation 
with Mrs. Pratt, that even now the conspirators might have 
made good their retreat, the queen had w’eightier matters to 
engage her attention than passing an evening at the theatre. 

“ The thirty-first of December,” said she to herself, as 
the winter afternoon drew in, shutting out from her view 
the spacious gardens of the palace, and the then small vil- 
lage of Kensington in the distance. The snow had fallen 
heavily throughout the day, and the wind swept in hollow 
gusts around that wung of the palace in which her chamber 
was situated, and turning, with a shiver, from the window, 
she continued : “ Ashton must surely have returned to St. 
Germains, or be on his way thither, and I am hero — here, 
and know not how to escape, for to leave without permis- 
sion will bo to own that I have cause for fearing I am 
detained in the light of a prisoner.” 

Now thinking of Sir Reginald, then of those she loved at 
St. Germains, and a weary feeling at her heart on account 
of the queen’s enquiries respecting Ashton, coupled with 
surprise at not having been summoned to attend her, she 
became full of apprehension of coming evil. She knew how 
tyrannical the sway of Mary had been since she had plucked 
tlie crown from her father’s brow, to place it on her own ; 
that there was not a warm spot in her cold, selfish heart. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


97 


save for her Dutch husband ; that she had trodden under 
foot every tender emotion, where the dearest ties were 
concerned, so that small mercy would be granted to herself 
should the queen surmise that she had in any way mixed 
herself up with this new rising. 

One after another the hours sped slowly on. She had 
dismissed her maid, telling her she should dispense with her 
attendance ; and, stirring the fire into a blaze, she threw 
herself on her knees, seeking to strengthen and fortify her- 
self by prayer, and also by the remembrance of the courage 
and resignation of the saintly Mary Beatrice, when, sud- 
denly, the dead silence of the night was broken by the 
sound of some soft substance thrown against the window. 

She started, rose from her seat, and listened attentively, 
when the noise was again repeated, this time somewhat 
more loudly. Shading her lamp, she advanced with falter- 
ing steps to the window, and partially drawing aside the 
curtain, fancied she could discern the figure of a woman 
loaning against a tree in the garden beneath. A moment 
passed in breathless suspense, then she became aware she 
was recognized, and advancing from the friendly shadow of 
tho tree, the person beneath raised her arm as if again about 
to attract attention. Cautiously and very gently, for Flor- 
ence had recognized, by tho pale moon-beams which fell on 
the white waste around, the form of Mrs. Ashton, she 
opened the casemate, and with true, unerring aim, a small 
substance, soft, and round as a ball, was flung into her 
room, and the next moment she had hastily glided away 
amidst the shadow of the thicket of evergreens. Gently 
Florence closed the window, and drew her curtain, and 
afraid, for a few moments, to open the little packet, she 
fastened her door, waited still a few moments, in case she 
9 


98 


FLOKKNCE o’nEILE ; OE, 


should be molested, and full of a deadly fear that her 
courageous visitor should have been watched. 

Not a sound, however, broke the dead stillness of the 
night, and she proceeded to unfold the little parcel, which 
consisted of several rolls of wool, compressed together. At 
last, within the centre of the last roll, her eye fell on a 
small piece of paper. It had one word written on it, and 
that was “Danger.” 

Florence flung it into the fire, and crouching down by the 
dying embers, buried her face in her hands. Her worst 
apprehensions seemed about to be verified. She went to 
bed, but could not sleep, and when at last she sunk into 
slumber it was disturbed by frightful visions and distressing 
dreams, the reflection of her waking thoughts. 

When the dawn of the winter morning broke at last, it 
found her with a raging headache, feverish, and utterly 
unable to rise. She had thought over several plans, and 
had cast them all aside as impracticable. The most feasible 
was to make a request to visit Sir Charles, but she feared 
being the means of drawing him into trouble, as she should 
inevitably do, did she obtain permission to visit him and 
fail to return. 

Thus it was that the queen was told that indisposition 
confined Florence to her room. 

Dinger, in what form would it present itself? Incarcera- 
tion, such as the queen’s tender mercies had inflicted on her 
own uncle ; torture, such as Ncvill Payne had undergone ; 
or death itself, which this ungrateful daughter and her 
Dutch husband had unsparingly inflicted on the unfortunate 
Jacobites who had attempted to procure the restoration of 
the exiled James. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


99 


CHAPTER XV. 



CIIAKLLOT THE EXILES. 

I X a spacious apartment, with oaken wain- 
scot and flooring, a few uncushioned chairs 
of the same, a long table in the wide case- 
ments buried in deep recesses in the wall, 
looking out on the wide expanse of country beyond, the 
leafless boughs of the trees covered with hoar-frost, for it is 
mid-winter, two ladies are seated ; one is still in the prime 
of life, the other is middle-aged. The younger of these 
ladies is tall and elegant in form, her complexion is fair, 
her hair as black as the raven’s wing, the arched eye-brows 
and long silken lashes that veiled the fine dark eyes were 
of the same hue, the contour of the face was of a delicate 
oval, the expression sweet and winning. 

The companion of this lady is robed in the garb of a nun. 
She has not her 'charm of personal beauty, but the frank, 
open countenance is pleasing, her figure is upright as when 
thirty, since she made the vows that bound her to religion. 
She is the abbess of Chaollot, and the other lady is the 
beautiful and hapless ex-queen of England, Mary Beatrice 
of Modena. 

A great consolation in her very sorrowful life must have 
been her affectionate intercourse with the nuns of Chaellot. 

‘^Is your majesty well assured that your information 
comes from a correct source ? ” asked the abbess, after a 
pause in their conversation. The calm resignation with 
which the queen generally bore her great trials had on this 
occasion given way to the indulgence of a burst of uncon- 
trollable grief. “ May we not hope,” she continued, “ that 
there may be some mistake in the assertion that your 


100 FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 

favorite, Florence O’Neill, is really detained at the court of 
Queen Mary.” 

“ Alas, no ; the news of my informant may bo too well 
relied upon ; there can be no doubt of that,” was the reply. 
“ Our greatest grief arises from the fact that those most 
devoted to our interests are, through that devotion, visited 
with penalties, imprisonment, and death; but when I suf- 
fered Florence to leave me to make a short visit in England, 
I certainly had not the faintest idea that she would ever 
approach the court, but the missive we have received tells 
us that not only is she detained there, to all appearances 
merely as one of the queen’s ladies, but that she, in fact, 
feels herself a kind of prisoner ; whilst immediately after 
Ashton had sailed from London with papers of the utmost 
importance for the king. The whole plot was discovered, 
it is suspected, through the instrumentality df the humble 
persons from whom he hired the vessel. These tidings, in 
fact, have reached us through my friend, Lady Bulkeley, 
whose husband writes her that Ashton’s wife has adopted 
some means to make my poor Florence aware that she is 
surrounded by danger ; nay, she must herself be aware that 
should Mary’s suspicions be excited, there is but one step 
from her presence, and that may be cither to the Tower or 
the grave.” 

“ But,” replied the abbess, “ with regard to Ashton, it 
does appear that he had really left London. Then let me 
beg your majesty to hope the best.” 

The poor queen shook her head sadly, saying : 

“Alas, my good mother, I cannot divest myself of the 
idea that I shall never more see my brave, good Ashton. I 
fear that the fury of Mary may be the means of stopping 
him before he has made way sufficiently to escape the emis- 
saries doubtless on his track. If so, death for himself. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


101 


Lord Preston, and others concerned in this rising, must pay 
the penalty of their loyalty. It does, indeed, seem as if the 
will of God were against us. That Florence, too, should 
have fallen into the power of the queen fills my heart with 
fear. How little did I think when I sufiered her to leave 
me she would ever incur such a risk.” 

“ That young lady has committed an act of imprudence, 
no doubt,” said the abbess. “I wonder was she aware that 
Sir Reginald had become one of the king’s adherents at the 
time she placed herself in Mary’s power ? ” 

“Certainly not. That knowledge, if, indeed, she be 
acquainted with it, will of itself increase what she must now 
be suffering.” 

‘‘ Was not Sir Reginald one of William’s favorites ; will 
not his property suffer for his defection ? ” 

“ Yes, undoubtedly, with all whose loyalty leads them to 
follow our fortunes,” replied the queen ; “ his property will 
be confiscated to the crown. Many have followed us to 
France, and William has, in every instance, outlawed them 
and confiscated their property. Yet they have preferred 
exile rather than tears for their allegiance to William and 
Mary, while amongst those who have remained in England 
many have rendered proofs of their friendship by refuting 
the slanders heaped upon my name.” 

The vile calumnies disseminated by the king’s worthless 
daughters respecting the legitimacy of her son, the Prince 
of Wales, filled the thoughts of the queen, and those full 
dark eyes, which Madame de Maintenon described as being 
always tearful, overflowed as she alluded to this scandal. 

“ There are times,” she added, after a pause, “ when we 
have very little hope ; for such is the temper of the nation, 
rny good mother, that it was impossible for the king to do 
0 * 


102 


FLOKEXCE o’xEILL; OE, 


anything in favor of religion and fail to give disgust.* 
The time was ripe for the invasion of William ; the asper- 
sions cast on the birth of the prince by his half-sisters were 
all means to the same end, and those who call the king a 
%ceah man, because that he abdicated the throne — if that 
were his only proof of weakness — do forget that it wanted 
some courage to go to rest as calmly as he did that night at 
Whitehall, with the Dutch guards of his traitor son-in-law 
and nephew about him. It is but a step for kings from the 
palace to an untimely end. Had he not the fate of his own 
father present to him, who shall dare say,” said the queen, 
for a time carried away by her feelings, “ who shall dare 
say that private assassination, or imprisonment for life, in 
one of William’s Dutch castles, might not have been his 
fate? But, my dear mother, I have rambled on without 
fully replying to your question. Sir Reginald’s property 
will all be confiscated. At present Florence has nothing to 
lose, but she is the heiress of her uncle, the Sir Charles de 
Grey of whom you have heard mo speak. He is far 
advanced in years, and it appears he also has managed to 
get* introduced at court. She is also the heiress of the 
O’Neill’s, BO that one way or another, should she give 
offence, no small sum will fall into the hands of William 
and Mary, as well as landed property to bestow on their 
parasites. But, hark ; there is the bell for Vespers. I will 
follow you,” she added, as the nun rose. “ I beg you, in 
your orisons, not to forget to offer up your prayers for the 
success of the king’s arms at Limerick, and for the welfare 
of nil my family.” 

“ That is an unnecessary injunction, your majesty,” and 
the abbess pressed the queen’s hand to her lips as she spoke. 


* J. S. Clarke’s Life of James 11. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


103 


“ NowLere are more fervent prayers offered for your 
prosperity and welfare than by our humble Community of 
Chaellot. It is growing dark ; I will hasten and send a sis- 
ter with lights for your Majesty.” 

For a few moments after the nun had departed, the queen 
still lingered, lost in melancholy thought. The embers of 
the wood fire* had burned low in the ample stove, leaving 
the further end of the apartment enveloped in obscurity, 
save when ever and again a ruddy glow broke forth, play- 
ing for awhile on the dark oaken wainscot and flooring, 
and then fading away, leaving the obscurity deeper than 
before. 

She walked to the casement and looked out on the scenery 
beyond the abbey. The whole earth was covered with a 
snowy garment, the evening wild and stormy, the boughs 
of the trees around the abbey bent beneath the weight of the 
snow, which was drifted from their leafless branches by the 
wind, the sullen sough of wliich was audible between each 
peal of the Vesper bell. 

The wintry scene was gloomy in the extreme, and the 
queen, whose heart was sorely oppressed at the news she 
had received from England, turned away with aweary sigh, 
and almost, in her present depression of spirits, experienced 
a feeling akin to fear, as she again seated herself in the 
large dimly-lighted room, the further extent of which she 
could not distinguish in the fast increasing darkness. 

It was with a feeling of intense relief that, a few moments 
later, she hoard the footstep of the Sister Mary Augustine, 
who had come with lights. She replenished the fire, and 
bearing a lamp in her hand, conducted the queen to her own 
apartments, before she went to the abbey chapel, for she was 
a constant attendant at the devotional exercises of the nuns 
when at ChaCdlot. 


104 


FLOIiENCE o’nEILL; OE, 


CHAPTER XVI. 

WITH OUT HOPE. 

(lay following the indisposition of Plorencc, 
s was summoned to attend the queen ; the 
ter had vainly endeavored to ascertain if 
! were at all acquainted with, or had 
tahen part in, the conspiracy. Of one thing she felt as- 
sured, and that was, that Florence had really intended to 
return to France in the vessel hired by the conspirators ; 
had she then been able to discover that she was mixed up 
with that fatal attempt, her Majesty would have sacrificed 
her to her wrath with all imaginable calmness. 

‘ ‘ I hear that Sir Charles is about to return to the coun- 
try,” she said, after expressing regret at the indisposition 
of Florence, “ I have invited him to the palace in order to 
spare you, as you are still poorly, the trouble of going 
thither. The king has been much pleased with his loyal 
behavior; he has given freely of his wealth towards the 
defraying of the expenses brought upon our government by 
these risings of foolish people who wish to overthrow our 
rule in these realms. How fortunate it is for you, young 
you did not return to Franco Under the conduct of 
John Ashton and his colleagues.” 

Florence started and her face turned pale, Mary divined 
her agitation and its cause. 

“Be thankful I have taken you under my protection,” 
she said, “that the Lord, in his mercy, has spared you the 
sin of mixing yourself Up with these} evil-doers, and of 
bringing yourself, perhaps, to the fate which awaits them.” 

Hero the queen paused, and Florence, too shocked, as 
well as too intimidated, made no reply. Well she knew 



THE SIEGE OP LIMEEICK. 


105 


that in some way the attempt of the brave Ashton had fallen 
through, that he was probably even now under arrest, with 
many others sharing his own fate. 

The queen again spoke : 

“ You will not be able to return to France for some time, 
perhaps never ; were you still inclined to marry St. John, 
you would wed an outlaw and a beggar, whose estates are 
already confiscated to the crown. Here, under my patron- 
age a better destiny awuits you ; there must, however, be no 
ostentatious display of the principles in which you have 
been brought up. You will learn in time, I hope, to imitate 
the example of your aged relative. Sir Charles, who remem- 
bers that the Scriptures saith, “YAe poicers that he are 
ordained of God, wisely render them obedience.” 

‘ ‘ Time server,” thought Florenee, the words almost 
trembling on her lips ; but the consciousness of her own 
danger kept her silent, and the next moment she remembered 
that her uncle had not the power to resist William’s demands. 
The moments passed on like so many hours, sorrow for her 
uncle, for herself, for Ashton, pressing like a weight of lead 
upon her heart. The queen was busy at her everlasting 
knotting of fringe, and Florence almost mechanically pro- 
ceeded with her embroidery, her eyes blinded by the tears 
she vainly tried to force back, so that, on laying down her 
work for a moment, the queen sharply called her attention 
to the fact, that she had chosen the wrong shades of silk in 
a Forget-me-Not she was embroidering in her scarf, saying, 
with a touch of irony in the tones of her voice, as she 
noticed the particular flower in which the mistake was 
made, 

“ The sooner you get rid of sentiment, maiden, the 
better, in this world we arc forgotten much sooner than wo 
think for, or than one’s self-love likes to admit : depend on 


106 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL ; OE, 


it, the traitor St, John has forgotten you ere now, as well 
as others, whom your heart vainly aches to see.” 

Florence had not become a reluctant visitant at the queen’s 
palace, and failed to discover that Mary was arbitrary, 
exacting, and severe. She had first become aware of these 
points in her new mistress’ character, by her treatment of 
the princess Anne, which she did not care to disguise even 
before her ladies, for just at this time the former had given 
the queen mortal offence by her solicitations for a pension, 
so as to free her from being the mere dependent on the 
bounty of her sister and the king, as also in her obstinately 
keeping her unworthy favorites, the Marlboroughs about 
her person. 

Impulsive and haughty as was the nature of Florence, 
the restraint imposed on her liberty was fast becoming in- 
supportable, yet she was without hope, humanly speaking : 
unless Providence interposed in her behalf, she could see 
no help ; to escape to France was out of the question, to 
seek an asylum with her friends in Ireland, equally impos- 
sible ; to ask permission to return with her uncle to the 
country, to the last degree, impracticable ; for, by so doing, 
she should be dragging him into trouble, even brought over 
as he now seemed to bo to the interests of the Prince of 
Orange. Were he inclined to further her wishes, knowing 
, as she did that, as the queen chose it to he assumed that she 
kept Florence near her from kindly motives, the offence 
would be instantly taken, and her departure visited on her- 
self, perhaps, by the incarceration the queen so often in- 
flicted on those who offended her. 

Meanwhile, to her astonishment, the morning passed over 
without that visit of the old baronet which Florence had 
been bidden to expect, and in lieu thereof, came a letter to 
the queen full of humble apologies, alleging as an excuse 


TUE SIEGE OP LIMEEICK. 


107 


that he was confined to his chamber by an attack of the 
gout, which would necessarily delay his return to tlie coun- 
try. When at length she received her dismissal, it is 
doubtful if the queen’s frame of mind were happier than 
her own. It was one of those days in which, as she re- 
marked in one of her letters to William, ‘ ‘ she must grui tcheu 
her heart is Itrealcingy * 

She was distressed at the news of the conspiracy which 
had broken out just as the absence of the king had left her 
at the helm of the government. The quarrel with the Prin- 
cess Anne was at its height, and she felt an -‘aversion to 
Florence, whom, nevertheless, she had determined on keep- 
ing at her own court, though under a species of surveillance, 
hoping later to extract from her tidings of the movements 
at St. Germains, and also enjoying the thought that she had 
separated her from the ex-queen as well as from Sir 
Reginald. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

CONDEMNED. 

agreement concerning the hire of the 
el had been a successful one. The thir- 
L of December was agreed upon as the 
on which the little party would leave 
London, and as time went on, Ashton became ex- 
tremely anxious at neither seeing nor hearing from the 
young lady, whom he stood pledged to Mary Beatrice to 
chaperone safely back to St. Germains. 

At length he decided on sending a note to Sir Charles, 
and then heard, to his surprise, that she was detained for 
an indefinite period at the Court of Queen Mary. 



*I»alrymple’s Memoirs. 


108 


FLOllENCE o’nEILL; OK, 


Meanwhile, the day drew nigh, and the perfect silence 
of Florence warranted the idea on Ashton’s part, that she 
was under a degree of surveillance which forbade her from 
holding any correspondence with him. 

There was then no help but to leave Florence in England. 

At last the thirtieth day arrived, a murky, gloomy day, 
a yellow fog laden with smoke hanging over London. 

They were to set sail in the evening, if possible, and 
many earnest prayers were offered, that they might speedily 
arrive in safety on the coast of France. 

One thing excited the surprise of Lord Preston and 
Ashton, it was that Mrs. Pratt had never appeared to claim 
her reward for her instrumentality in securing them the hire 
of the vessel. 

At last they bade farewell to all they held dear, and dur- 
ing the first hours of the early winter evening they went on 
board. 

The fog had cleared off, but there was an utter absence of 
wind, and as they paced the deck in company with a Mr, 
Elliott, a Jacobite gentleman, who had joined them, and 
counted the hour of six sound from the clocks of the city 
churches, they each invariably prayed that a strong wind 
might ere long waft them on their way. But, alas, there 
was not sufiicient breeze to disturb the thick locks which 
clustered over Ashton’s anxious brow. 

After some time spent in earnest consultation, they 
decided that it would be best to drop the anchor, and after 
a while, snatch a few hours rest until a favorable wind 
should perchance arise, either during the night or on the 
following morning. 

Lord Preston’s slumbers were deep and heavy, but the 
sleep of Ashton was far otherwise, his imagination being 
disturbed by frightful visions ; now, he was in the torture 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


109 


chamber a witness of the cruelties inflieted on his old friend 
Nevill Payne, then, he was himself writhing beneath the 
hands of the executioner ; again the scene changed, and he 
beheld himself separated from his wife and children, and on 
the point of being led out to suffer capital punishment. 

The horror of his dream awakened him, his face was cov- 
ered with a cold perspiration induced by the terror he had 
suffered, and it was with no small satisfaction that he beheld 
the first dawn of morning stealing through the cabin winr 
dows. He was also aware by the motion of the vessel that 
they were on their way from London. Unwilling any longer 
to risk encountering again the horrors by which his res*^^ had 
been disturbed, by yielding to the drowsiness ho felt, he 
arose, dressed himself, and going upon deck, perceived to 
his gratification that they were some way beyond Woolwich, 
lie had not been long on deck before ho was joined by Lord 
Preston and Mr. Elliott. 

“And so you could not sleep, Ashton,” said his lordship 
in answer to Ashton’s remarks, “as for myself, I rested 
right well. In case of any sudden surprise or mischance, 
I had before I left home tied a piece of lead to the package 
entrusted to my care, you know what I mean,” he added 
significantly, “ I put it under my head when I went to sleep, 
resolved that, on the first intimation of danger, I should 
throw it overboard, then I troubled myself no more about 
the matter, and had a good night’s rest.” 

“I wish I could say the same, my lord,” was Ashton’s 
reply. ‘ ‘ I know not why our natures should seem changed, 
but you now possess all the fearlessness which I thought 
you wanted in the earlier stage of this affair, whilst I am 
depressed and anxious.” 

“Nay, 3Ir. Ashton,” said Elliott, “ pluck up some of 
your usual spirits. See, a fair wind has sprung up ; we 
10 


no 


FLOIiENCi: o’XEiLI. ; 01{, 


shall soon bo out of the river. What say you both to our 
going below to breakfast?” 

“ Agreed,” replied his lordship and Ashton, and they 
remained in the cabin in conversation for some time after 
they had made their morning meal. 

When they returned on deck, they found that the mist of 
the early morning was gradually dispersing, a fine wind had 
risen, and everything looked well as far as the weather was 
concerned, and the cloud on Ashton’s brow began to pass 
away. 

“ Wo shall soon bo clear of the river,” thought he, for 
they were nearing Gravesend. As ho turned in his walk 
along the short deck of the little bark, so as to face London, 
he suddenly started. A vessel of good dimensions, and 
with several men on deck, appeared in sight. Ho had 
previously observed it in the distance, but as it gradually 
became more distinct it assumed the proportions of a large 
vessel. 

It seemed to bo following in their own track, and Lord 
Preston noticed the nervous restlessness with which Ashton 
regarded its movements. 

A little longer, and Gravesend was in sight. It was as 
fine a morning and as bright a sunshine as ever lighted up 
the blue waters of old Father Thames on a mid-winter day, 
and the white sails of the vessel fluttered gaily in the fresh, 
sharp breeze that wafted them on their way. 

But Ashton heeds nothing but this vessel. Ho stands 
rivetted, as it were, to the spot, leaning over the deck, and 
watching intently the movements of the larger craft. He 
now counts four men on deck, and he fancies he saw many 
more than these, and that they must have gone below. He 
is quite convinced, too, that in one of these men he recog- 
nizes a Captain Billop, one of the government officers. 


TUE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


Ill 


Nearer, yet nearer, in ten minutes, or less, they will pass 
Gravesend. 

Nearer, yet nearer, too, comes the stronger vessel. Still, 
unless it is a feint to deceive those who man the smaller 
craft, she docs not appear as though she were in pursuit. 

Seven, five, three minutes, and Gravesend will be 
reached. A motley group are on the shore watching the 
vessels as they steer proudly on their way, or stop, it may 
be, to take up fresh passengers. 

The larger vessel is now nearly alongside the smaller one, 
it is certainly following in her wake. A cold sweat breaks 
out on Ashton’s forehead ; Elliott and Lord Preston seem 
still cool and free from fear. Suddenly Ashton remembered 
the packet the latter had said he had placed beneath his 
pillow, and hastens to the cabin to sec if he had secured it. 
There it still was, in the spot Lord Preston had named, and 
secreting it in his breast-pocket, Ashton again went upon 
deck, and signed his friends to follow him to the further 
end of the vessel. 

One short moment of intense suspense, the little bark has 
stopped, she has touched at Gravesend, in obedience to a 
peremptory command issued by the master of the larger 
vessel. 

Its occupants confer a few moments together. The next 
moment they arc on board of Ashton’s little craft, and he 
knows his hour of trial has come. Approaching the side of 
the ship, he thrusts his right hand within his breast-pocket, 
intending to drop over the edge of the vessel the dangerous 
papers he had unfortunately concealed on his person; but 
even as he nervously clutches the fatal packet, his arm is 
withheld by a powerful grasp, and he and his companions 
arc commanded, in tlie name of King William and Queen 
Mary, to consider themselves under arrest. 


112 


FLO^vE^X'E o’neill; ok, 


Then canic the search, and in Ashton’s trunk, concealed 
amongst his clothes, were found papers containing evidence 
of the birth of the Prince of Wales. 

The packet he had taken from Lord Preston’s pillow 
included letters from the Bishop of Ely, Lord Clarendon, 
and other persons of rank and consideration, with proposals 
to King James to reinstate him on the throne if he would 
undertake to provide for the security of the Church of 
England, bestow employments on Protestants preferably to 
Catholics, live a Catholic in religion, but reign a Protestant 
as to government, and bring over with him only so much 
power as would be necessary for his defence, and to rid the 
country of the foreign power that had invaded it.* 

Under a strong guard the unfortunate Ashton and his 
friends were conveyed back to London as soon as the tide 
served. Lord Preston being sent to the Tower, Ashton and 
Elliott to a prison. An agonizing fortnight and two days 
elapsed, and then Lord Preston and John Ashton were 
tried at the Old Bailey, the indictment setting forth that 
they were compassing the deaths of their majesties, the king 
and queen. 

In his defenee Lord Preston urged that he had no hand 
in hiring the vessel, that no papers were found on him, that 
the whole proof against him rested on mere supposition. 
He was, however, declared guilty. 

Ashton was confronted by Mrs. Pratt, she being the 
chief witness against him. Pale and care-worn, indeed, he 
appeared as he stood at the dock, hoping nothing that his 
life would be spared, when he found himself brow-beaten 
by the bench and the jury, and pretty confident, from the 
line of defence adopted by the craven-hearted nobleman. 
Lord Preston, that he was prepared to ensure his own 


♦Clarke’s Life of James II. 


THE SIEGE OP LIMERICK. 


113 


acquittal, even if by so doing it procured Asb ton’s condem- 
nation. 

The eounsel for the prosecution then set forth that on 
Ashton’s body were found papers containing the whole gist 
of the conspiracy, being a design to alter the government by 
a French power and aid ; that the letters would be found, 
when read, to contain a black and wicked conspiracy to 
introduce and, by means of a Popish interest, settle our 
laws, liberties, and properties by a French army ; and if 
the plot had taken effect, of course we should have had any 
religion and laws the French king might be pleased to impose. 

When the counsel had concluded, Mrs. Pratt and the 
other witnesses were called, and after they had given their 
evidence, Ashton was asked if he had anything to say in his 
defence ? 

A breathless silence pervaded the whole court when he 
began to speak. lie behaved with intrepidity and com- 
posure, though several times contemned by the bench. He 
solemnly declared that he was ignorant of the contents of 
the papers that had been found on bis person, complained 
of having been denied time to prepare for his trial, and 
called several persons to prove him a Protestant of exem- 
plary piety and irreproachable morals. 

It was of no avail ; the papers, it was insisted, had been 
found in his possession, and though it is an axiom of the 
boasted English law that no man shall be deemed guilty till 
he has been tried, the judges and the jury had, however, 
convicted him in their own minds from the first, and sen- 
tence of death was accordingly passed against him. 

The reaction took place when poor Ashton was removed 
to the goal, and received the visit of his distracted, heart- 
broken wife. Elliott was acquitted, without a trial, there 
being no evidence against him. 

" 0 * 


114 


FLOIiENCE o’kEILL; Oil, 


CHAPTER XVIII 
LORD Preston’s revelations. 

i^^^lIIE trial over, but great alarm was felt 
ySy cjueen . and the government at the 

amount of disaffection betrayed by the eon- 
spiracy, whieh proved to have grown out of 
that in which Nevill Payne had suffered. 

The queen was at Windsor for a eouple of days, and, on 
rambling into St. George’s Gallery, was surprised to see a 
lovely little girl, about nine years of age, standing there, 
and more surprised at her employment. 

]\Iary had entered the gallery unheard and unpereeived 
by the child, who stood before a full length portrait of 
James the Second, gazing at it with wistful and tearful eyes. 

Struck by the expression of the little girl’s face, the 
queen said to her : 

“ What do you see in that picture, child, that makes you 
look at it so attentively ? ” 

The child looked up fearlessly in Mary’s face, recognized 
the queen, and replied : 

‘ ‘ I was thinking how hard it is my father should die for 
loving your’s.” 

The little girl had been left in the queen’s apartments 
during the trial, for her father had held the post of chamber- 
lain to James, and had not been formally dispossessed of 
his office when the conspiracy broke out. 

The little lady Catherine did not lose her father ; his life 
was spared that he might betray others. The following 
day ho appeared before the queen, and she held out hopes of 
pardon to him. 

“ Declare to me. Lord Preston, the names of the ring-^ 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


115 


leaders of this plot ; render this service to the government, 
and it may, perhaps, he that you may save your own life by 
so doing.” 

Equally guilty in the eye of the law with those whom he 
was about to denounce, he was saving his own life by 
betraying his friends, a deed which cost poor, obscure, 
upright Nevill Payne his life, because he would not commit 
what he considered to be a dishonorable action. 

No wonder that he hesitated, and that the glow of shame 
mantled his cheek. 

“ Speak out, my lord, or the consequences of your 
obstinacy be on your own head,” said the queen. “We 
have resolved to have recourse to the severest measures to 
establish peace and root up these plots against our govern- 
ment. I command you to speak, or Ashton’s fate shall bo 
yours ; remember, a jury of your country have declared you 
guilty.” 

“ Forgive me, your Majesty ; if I faltered, it was out of 
compassion for what they will have to suffer.” 

“ Leave that consideration to us, my lord ; all reasonable 
clemency will be shown to those who choose to avail them- 
selves of it. Give me up the names at once.” 

“ I have talked on the subject of the late king’s restora- 
tion with Lord Clarendon” (the queen started, though she 
knew long since there was disaffection very near herself), 
“ the Bishop of Ely, William Penn, and many others W'hose 
names I will give in to your majesty this very day.” 

‘ ‘ And what know you of this Ashton ? ” 

“ He mado every arrangement connected with the con- 
spiracy ; arranged tho meetings at his own house, engaged 
the boat ; he has been in tho habit of conveying letters to 
and fro to St. Germains, under assumed names.” 

“ And has any lady been connected with tliis conspiracy, 


116 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


a young lady,” added the queen, “ who is warmly attached 
to the late queen ? Can you tell me if such an one has been 
in any way worked up with this rising ? ” 

Lord Preston again hesitated to betray a woman, it was 
against all the rules of gallantry ; but the generally even- 
tempered queen was getting exasperated, and she exclaimed : 

“ Speak, sir; has Florence O’Neill had anything to do 
with this affair, is she privy to it ? ” 

“ I met her once at Ashton’s house, your Majesty ; but, 
then, you know, she has known him for years. He brought 
her over to England, and she was to go back to France 
under his protection.” 

“To the Tower, rather,” muttered the enraged queen. 
Then turning to Lord Preston, she said; “You may go, 
my lord ; I have signed your pardon, and let this act of 
clemency on our part teach you not to offend again ; see 
that you do not abuse it.” 

The noble lord, who had thus basely purchased his own 
forgiveness by the betrayal of those of whom he had him- 
self been a willing accomplice, and by so doing saved his 
life, was profuse in his thanks, and then, bowing pro- 
foundly, left the queen to her own reflections. 

“ And so it is just as I thought; this disaffection is, 
indeed, widely spread,” she murmured. “ My Lord Bishop 
of Ely, and you, my Lord Clarendon, uncle or no uncle, in 
the Tower you shall remain ; but we dare not meddle with 
others of the nobility of whom he has promised to send in 
the names, but, as the king said before he left, we must win 
them over, by a seeming clemency, to our interests. As for 
Ashton, he shall be made an example of, and that within a 
day or two. He will be the first to suffer capital punish- 
ment for rising against us, and his death will strike terror 
into others. As for you, my young mistress Florence, I 
will clap you up in the Tower before the week is out.” 


THE SIEGE OP LIMElilCK. 


117 


During that morning a letter came to Florence from her 
uncle, intimating that he was much worse, and expressing 
a wish that she would immediately pay him a visit. 

Taking the letter with her, Florence sought the queen. 
The latter had not long since closed the interview with 
Lord Preston, hut was too great an adept in the art of dis- 
guising her real feelings, to discover what they were, and 
without any difficulty, Florence obtained permission to ho 
absent from the palace during the day. 

Within an hour of her leaving Whitehall, where the 
queen was then staying, she had reached her uncle’s home 
at Kensington, and though distressed to see him looking far 
from well, she was, nevertheless, rejoiced that he was not as 
bad as the tenor of his letter had led her to expect. 

The chief cause of his disquiet appeared to be his pro- 
longed absence from the country. 

“Losing all this glorious weather for hunting, too,” ho 
said, “ moored up here in this dreary place instead of being 
out with my hounds and my fallow-sportsmen, and my 
money dragged from me to a pretty tunc to help this Dutch 
prince carry on his wars and butcher his neighbors, whilst 
I never helped my good sailor king with a pound. Ah, 
Florence, Florence, ’twas a bad day for us both when Sir 
Reginald persuaded me to come up to this vile London, and — ” 
Here, however, poor Sir Charles came to a stop, and 
made a grimace indicative of severe pain. 

“My dear uncle,” said Florence, “what difference can 
it make to you whether you are at Morvillc or near mo ; you 
are as well attended to here, and occasionally I can have the 
comfort of seeing you. Resides, uncle,” she added, trying 
to repress a smile, ‘ ‘ how could you hunt with that gouty leg ? ” 
“ Gout, or no gout, I tell you I hate the place,” was the 
Raronet’s reply. “I was dragged up hero, I now sec, for 


118 


FLORENCE O NEILL ; OR, 


nothing but to open my purse to help that boorish, uncouth 
Dutch prince, who only cares for this country for the money 
he can get out of it ; and who will draw the nation into 
misery and debt enough before it has done with him. Dui 
serve the people right; serve them right,” he continued, 
with increasing irritation, they have got their Protestant 
liberty, they have got their accursed penal laws, which they 
hated poor James for trying to put down, and they’ve got 
■\Villiam and Mary, and the country loaded with debt into 
the bargain; they’ve got the lash in the army and navy, 
and all sorts of villainies besides, and I wish I was a young 
man again. I would,” — and here the exasperated Baronet 
shook his stick defiantly in the air — I would not lead the 
sluggish life I have led, but would be one of the first to 
fight for the good old stock. By the way,” he added, after 
a pause, and suddenly becoming more placable, “hast heard 
anything of that unfortunate fellow, Reginald; that de- 
scendant of a cross-eared, puritanical, canting knave, who 
has now become a roystering Jacobite ? ” 

“ Not a word, dear uncle,” said Florence ; and dropping 
her fair head on her uncle’s shoulder, she gave free vent to 
hc*r long pent-up feelings by a violent burst of tears. 

“ Halloa, halloa, what means this, my poor child? ” said 
the old man, kissing her fervently, as he spoke. “Why, 
what an old fool I am, to forget she was betrothed to the 
poor fellow. Come, cheer up, Florence, remember the 
old saying, the ‘ darkest hour is nearest the dawn.’ ” 

“But uncle, dear,” and, as if afraid the very walls 
should hear, the girl lowered her voice almost to a whisper, 
‘ ‘ I am almost in a state of captivity at the palace ; I had 
to get permission even to see you. I cannot hear from any 
of those I love, it is impossible ; nor can I get to them, 
and I fear, uncle, poor Ashton has fallen into trouble, for 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


119 


the other night I saw Mrs. Ashton in tho grounds beneath 
niy window, and she flung a little packet iu my room, in 
which was written the word : ‘ Danger ! ’ The queen, too, 
has said strange things, questioning me about him, so that 
I think he can never have got off to France.” 

“Dear child, you can do no good; the action was wrong; 
Mrs. Ashton should not have come near you. Promise an 
old man, who has seen much of the world, that you will not 
meddle with these matters. In his own good time, God will 
lead you out of this Babylon into pleasanter places. Promise 
me this, Florence,” and as the old man spoke he stroked 
her golden hair with his withered hand, saying, as if to him- 
self, “ How like her mother at her age ; God rest her soul,” 
and then the hand of the aged man was raised to make the 
holy sign of redemption. 

“ Yes, I will be very careful, uncle dear, and now tell 
me at what hour do you dine ? ” 

“At all hours, at any hour, my darling; good Mrs. 
Walton is so very careful a nurse that she is bringing me 
delicacies all day long. What shall I order for you, love ? 
a fowl and ham, and a nice pasty ? hamper of venison 
came up from Morville last night, and they tell me it is in 
fine condition. But why anxious about the dinner hour, 
did you not say you could spend the whole day as you 
pleased ? ” 

Florence flu.shcd up a little at her uncle’s question, and 
replied not without a little hesitation : 

“ Yes, uncle dear, but I have a call to make in Covent 
Garden, and I get out so rarely alone. See now, I will not 
be away more than from two to three hours ; your carriage 
can take me back to the palace about nine at night, and 
shall drive me now as far as I am going. It is just noon, 
and if I get back, as I will,- between two and three, we 
shall still have many hours together.” 


120 


FLORENCE o’nEILL 3 011, 


“'Well, I suppose it must be as you say; but miud, 
Florenee, take my advice, be very prudent in all your ac- 
tions ; ” here the Baronet gazed steadfastly at bis niece, 
as if bo doubted ber on that point, and then added : “ never 
forget that you arc at tbe Court of Mary, the daughter wbo 
bas not spared ber own father in ber restless ambition. 
1 bit sbe would crush as a worm beneath her feet ; beads as 
fair and young as thine, my love, have fallen beneath the 
headsman’s axe, as you well know. Such an end to you 
would bring those who love you in sorrow to their graves.” 

For a moment Florence faltered in her purpose ; but only 
for that brief period of time did the picture the old man 
had so graphically drawn lead her to waver. The next, her 
resolve was taken ; she was supported by the hccdlcssness 
and daring spirit of youth. 

She was determined to visit Ashton’s wife. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE CONDEMNED CELL. 

n llERE is no one on the watch ; so far, well,” 
said Florence to herself, as she stepped into 
her uncle’s carriage, having ordered one of 
the footmen to see ‘that she was set down at a 
certain spot in the Strand, at the same time signifying that 
the carriage need not wait. 

“The place is wofully near to the palace,” thought she, 
as she stepped out of the carriage at the spot she had 
named ; and at that moment observing a couple of men 
pass with a sedan chair, she without hesitation stepped in 
and drew the curtains closely to, having first given the 
direction to Ashton’s house. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


121 


The street in which it was situated was perfectly empty 
when she arrived at her destination. A heavy winter rain 
had begun to fall, and driven to the shelter of their homes 
all who were not compelled to be on foot. 

The men who had carried the chair she desired to wait, 
telling them she would pay them liberally for their time and 
trouble. 

The old servant whom she had seen on her former visits 
answered the door. She was bathed in tears, her whole ap- 
pearance betokening excessive grief, whilst from the partially 
open door of a small parlor came forth the sound of sobs 
and lamentations. 

“ Is Mrs. Ashton within ? ” said Florence, in a loud voice, 
remembering that this woman was very deaf. 

Her voice was recognized, the mistress of the house her- 
self appeared ; her eyes were swollen with weeping, her 
hair was disordered, her limbs trembled with excessive agi- 
tation. At her side, clinging to the skirt of her dress, was 
a little girl, about the same age as Lord Preston’s child, but 
alas, the nobleman’s life was spared to betray his accom- 
plices and show up the windings of the plot, whilst the 
more humble-minded and upright Ashton was to bo made 
the victim to strike terror into the hearts of others. 

“ Dear Mrs. Ashton, what is the matter?” said Florence, 
a chill striking to her heart, though she was very far from 
guessing at the worst, her fears only pointing at present to 
betrayal and imprisonment. 

“ Oh, madam, madam, my poor husband,” was the only 
reply ; but the little girl looked up in the face of Florence 
and faltered out between her sobs ; 

“ They are going to kill my poor papa.” 

“ Good God, ah! no, Mrs. Ashton,” said Florence, “ do 
not tell me this ? ” 

11 


122 


FL01lE^X‘E o’NEILL; OE, 


“Madam,” said Mrs. Ashton, endeavoring to speak 
through her Bobs, “ my poor husband was arrested before 
he got out of the river. By his own request, I apprised 
you by the only means in my power of our danger. He 
was tried on the 14th, and Oh ! my God, on the morning of 
the 20th, has the queen decreed I am to be widowed, and 
my children left without a father.” 

It was sometime before Florence could speak. To offer 
comfort at such moments as these is worse than useless ; 
the blows coming, too, so suddenly on Florence had the 
effect of, for a time, throwing her in a state of bewilder- 
ment. 

Suddenly she rose from her seat. 

“ I must see my poor friend once more, Mrs. Ashton,” 
said she. 

“ What, madam, what was it you said? Ah, no, my 
good young lady, it is impossible for you to see him. Ash- 
ton has been in the greatest distress for you amidst his own 
sorrow, since he found you were detained at the Court of 
that wicked woman. Indeed, indeed, you must not think 
of such a thing.” 

“ But indeed I shall, Mrs. Ashton,” said Florence. “ A 
chair waits for me at the door of your house ; I have little 
time to lose, by three I must be back at Kensington.” 

“ My dear young lady, if ill consequences follow this 
visit, as is more than likely, you must take them on your- 
self. Will you promise that you will tell my dear ill-fated 
husband that I dissuaded you by all the means in my 
power ? ” 

“ Certainly I will, and now where is he ; every moment 
is of consequence to me ? ” 

Stay, madam, have a little regard for your own safety. 
A thought occurs to me ; you have the advantage of me in 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


123 


height, nevertheless, you can wear one of my black dresses. 
As I am in mourning, it will be a nice disguise. Let me 
go out in the blue dress you wear and tell the men you 
want the sedan chair for a friend-; then put my veil and 
cloak over the black dress, such as I wear when I visit my 
poor husband, lest there should be any evil-disposed person 
near my house, for^ I have no doubt the emissaries of the 
queen watch it closely. When you can return, you can slip 
on your own dress, and I will sec that a carriage be in readi- 
ness by half-past two to take you back to Kensington ; and 
may God, my dear young lady, preserve you from danger.” 

As Florence had purposely kept her veil down since she 
left her uncle’s house, the ruse succeeded with the men, and 
she entered her chair unquestioned. Mrs. Ashton had 
desired them to drive to the Old Bailey, and then wait there 
till again wanted. 

A death-like chill came over Florence when she again 
took her scat in the chair ; the shock itself had been so 
sudden, the risk she was herself running of no light nature, 
and, unfortunately, she had motioned aside the glass of 
wine Mrs. Ashton had pressed her to take, and now felt in 
want of a restorative. She felt marvellously as if she was 
about to faint, but by a violent effort rallied, so as to be 
able to continue her journey. 

At length she reached the prison, and giving the men a 
handsome fee, bidding them wait her return, she obtained 
admittance. Never removing her veil, and avoiding too 
close a scrutiny, as well as obtaining a pass by the most 
easy way, that of money, she was the more readily mistakc.i 
for Mrs. Ashton, and passed unquestioned, a painful sense 
of terror and depression on her mind as, attended by the 
warden, she hastened through the long narrow stone pas- 
sages, through which the grey dusky light of the winter day 
scarcely penetrated. 


124 


FLORENCE O’NEILL ; OR, 


At length they stopped at a low-arched door, similar in 
appearance to many they had passed hy, and unlocking it, 
the man said : 

“ Now, Mrs. Ashton, you must not exceed half an hour; 
you have already been here once to-day ; I shall come for 
you when the half hour is up.” 

Her disguise, then, was complete; she had not been 
taken for other than she whom she personated. 

“ Elizabeth, my wife, why here again?” said poor Ash- 
ton, himself deceived ; “ remember our poor children, and 
leave me, love, to the resignation I have implored God to 
bestow.” 

“ Oh, Ashton, Ashton, has it then come to such a pass 
as this,” said Florence, throwing aside the long thick veil 
which had screened her features. “ Alas, alas, I feared 
you had not got to France, but never dreamed of such woe 
as this.” 

“ Madam, is it possible you, are here? Oh, leave me, 
leave me ; one such step as this known, and you arc undone. 
My poor Elizabeth, I see, has lent you her clothes. Oh, my 
Elizabeth, that was indeed wrong.” 

No, Mr. Ashton, it was right. Your wife found I was 
obstinate in my wish to see you once again. I would take 
no denial, Ashton. What will they say when they hear 
you have died in their cause ? ” 

“They will say, young lady, that the will of God was 
against us, and they will try to be resigned. I shall pray 
for my dear master and for my beloved mistress with my 
latest breath. But, dear young lady, this is no fit place 
for you. I do beg you again to return home as speedily as 
possible.” 

Florence did not speak for a few moments. She sat down 
upon his miserable truckle bed, and burying her face in her 
hands, her tears fell fast. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


125 


Ashton saw them trickle through her fingers, he beheld 
her whole frame shook hy the violence of her emotions. 
Again he essayed to arouse her ; her grief unmanned him 
it was so violent, it was pitiable to behold it. 

“ Madam, dear young lady,” he said, in a whisper, “for 
God’s sake, for the sake of the unfortunate man who stands 
before you, command your feelings, and leave this terrible 
place. It will soothe my last moments, the remembrance of 
the friendship of a lady filling the position you occupy, and 
it pleases me to believe that the day will come when you 
will be able to tell the king and queen that I was true to 
them to the last, and that by reason of my truth I am called 
on by the world to suffer. But it is ever thus, young lady, 
yet in a few short hours all will be over, this mortal coil 
will be violently wrested away by the hands of others, and. 
Oh ! glad thought, I shall have put on immortality.” 

Florence ceased weeping, and fixed an admiring gaze on 
this martyr of loyalty, as the non-jurors justly considered 
him. 

His countenance was wan and haggard by the distress of 
mind he had suffered ; his dark hair hung in tangled locks 
over his open brow, his voice was hollow and his eyes 
sunken by the tears he had shed, not for himself, but for 
his helpless wife and children, and the failure of the cause 
in which he had been engaged. 

But resignation, fortitude, magnanimity, heroism there 
remained, and the power of the undying mind survived the 
wreck of the shattered mortal frame. 

“ And now, young lady, I have something to give you, 
and also something to ask, as youVtai;c honored my dismal 
cell with a visit, to your own imminent danger. I have 
here a copy of a paper I have drawn up to leave in the 
hands of a friend. I beg you to read it, and when at 


126 


FLORENCE o’nEILI. ; OR, 


length you revisit St. Germains give it to the king. As to 
the request, I scarce know how to make it ; it is a hold one 
to ask of so young a lady.” 

“Name it, my good Ashton; if anything within my 
power I will gladly comply with it.” 

“ You arc a rich heiress, madam ; dare I ask you if you 
will pay for the education of my little daughter, Maud ?” 

“ Right gladly, my dear friend. Moreover, I pledge 
myself to her brave and suffering father to look to Maud’s 
well-being when the years of childhood shall have passed ; 
Maud shall be with me, shall live with me. My friend, 
have no care for her. The boy, too, shall not be left 
unprotected, and — your wife, that Elizabeth you love, have 
you any request to make on her behalf ? ” 

‘^I commend her fearlessly, Madam, to that God who 
chasteneth whom He loveth. Elizabeth will bend for a time 
beneath the stroke, but the same all-healing time will bring 
the consolation.” 

“ When I return to St. Germains, your Elizabeth shall go 
with me. Have you aught more of earthly care upon your 
mind ? ” 

“ No wish remains ungratified, dearest Madam ; no care 
save the fear that evil will befall yourself.” 

“ God will protect me. Hark, the half hour has expired, 
and the warden comes. Farewell, gallant John Ashton, a 
long farewell, and may the God of all peace support you.” 

The key turned in the lock, and Florence did not dare look 
on Ashton again. She heard him sob aloud as she left the 
cell, and with the tears falling thick and fast under her veil, 
she retraced her steps, passing out from the gloomy prison 
back to the clatter and din without its dismal gates. 

For some time after she had regained her chair her tears 
continued falling ; then, remembering the paper Ashton 
had given her, she opened it and read as follows : 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


127 


*Being suddenly called to yield up my accounts to the Searcher 
.of all hearts, I think it a duty incumbent on me to impart some 
things which neither the iniquity nor interests of these times will, 
I conclude, willingly bear the publication of, and, therefore, not fit 
to be inserted in the sheriffs paper. 

Some time after the Prince of Orange arrived here, when it was 
expected that, according to his own declaration, and the king’s 
letter to the Convention, an exact search and enquiry was to have 
been made into the birth of the Prince of Wales, there was a scheme 
of the whole matter drawn up, and of the proofs that were then and 
are still ready to be produced, to prove his royal highness’ 
legitimacy ; but no public examination being ever had, and the 
violence of the times, as well as interest of the present govern- 
ment, not permitting any private person to move in it, these papers 
have ever since lain by. 

But it being now thought advisable by some to have them 
printed, and as they were at first designed, addressed to the Lords 
and Commons, entreating them to enquire into that weighty aflfair, 
and to call forward, examine, and protect, for who else dares to 
appear, the many witnesses to the several particulars therein 
affixed to be legally proved, I was ordered to carry these papers to 
the king, my master, for his inspection, that his leave and appro- 
bation might go along with the desire of his good subjects here, 
and they being taken with me, with some other papers of accounts 
in a small trunk, amongst my linen and other private things of my 
own, and not in the packet, by this means fell into the hands of our 
present governors. 

They waived the producing of them as evidence at my trial, yet 
have I just reason to believe my greatest crimes were contained 
therein. • 

Having read this document, Florence coneealed it in her 
bosom, wisely resolving to consign it to the care of Mrs. 
Ashton whilst she continued a resident at the court. 

On her arrival at the house she speedily changed her 
dress, and told her that, sad as the interview had been, she 
felt gratified that she had seen her husband, also that she 
was to take what steps she pleased with regard to her chil- 


♦Papers left by Ashton in the care of a friend. 


128 


FLOKENCE O^NEILL ; OE, 


dren, for the expenses of whose edueation she would make 
herself chargeable, and requested her when she had any 
communication to make, to convey it to her through the 
means of her uncle. 

Amidst many tears and the warmest expression of thanks, 
Florence then left the house in a coach which Mrs. Ashton 
had provided for her use. It was just three o’clock when 
she re-entered her uncle’s chamber. 

She was pale, tearful, dispirited ; how could it be other- ’ 
wise ? 

The only circumstance in the whole sad affair that cheered 
her up was the knowledge that she had been able to do an 
act of charity, and thereby to soothe poor Ashton’s last 
hours. 

It was impossible, however, to deceive her uncle. He 
handed her a glass of wine. She thankfully accepted it, 
but her hand shook as she held the glass, and then setting 
it down un tasted, she burst into tears. 

“ Florence, my child, what is the matter ? ” said the old 
man, much alarmed. You are faint and ill ; you have 
waited too long for your food, I will order refreshments 
’m mediately. I have longed so to see you back. I have 
been wishing 1 could get you here to live with me, but 
without' the chance of giving offence in high quarters ; it 
cannot be done, however.” 

“Oh, that I could! Oh, that I could!” said Florence, 
passionately, wringing her hands. 

“ But what has happened to distress you so since you left 
me this morning ? ” enquired her uncle. 

“Oh, uncle, Ashton is to be executed at the Old Bailey 
the day after to-morrow, and I knew nothing of it till I 
called on his wretched wife.” 

“ But I did, my child, and I hid it from you ptltposely. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


129 


But, my love, did you not tell me you would be prudent, 
and yet you went straight from me to poor Ashton’s house, 
the last place you should have gone to, and you attached to 
the court.” 

Fearing the effect it might have on her uncle, Florence 
did not tell him of the visit she had paid to Ashton himself. 
Moreover, in case of harm happening to her, she judged it 
best that he should be able, if questioned, to declare, with 
a safe conscience, that he did not know what her move- 
ments had been during her absence from his house. 

At length she rewarded his care and solicitude by bright- 
ening up a little, ate her dinner with composure, took wine 
with him, and sang him one or two favorite songs, and 
when she took leave of him late in the evening he was grati- 
fied at seeing her as cheerful, apparently, as when she came 
to visit him in the morning. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE queen’s escape. 

HOUGH possessing some strength of mind and 
courage in no small degree at the same time, 
I do not want it to be inferred that the 
heiress of the O’Neills was what the world 
terms a strong-minded woman. For instance, she could not 
resist the wish of seeing poor Ashton once more, though at 
the same time she incurred the chance of putting her own 
head in the halter by so doing. She was naturally timid, 
and, like many of her sex nowadays, with not much of the 
cardinal virtue of prudence ; and when she had committed 
an imprudent action, a corresponding fear followed, as a 



130 


FLORENCE o’nEILL J OR, 


matter of course. Disguised as Mrs. Ashton, she had 
obtained access to the dreary prison, had bade him a last 
farewell, had passed the warden of the gaol without, appa- 
rently, attracting observation ; had returned to Mrs. Ash- 
ton’s in the chair which had carried her to the prison, and 
in the privacy of her hapless hostess’ house had changed her 
dress, and then returned to her uncle, and from his mans! m 
to the palace, without let or hindrance from any person 
whatsoever. 

Yet a strange, indefinable fear that her footsteps had been 
dogged, and her visit to the prison consequently detected, 
filled her mind. There was a constraint about the queen, 
too, on the following day, such as she had not previously 
observed. Perhaps the idea was born out of her own fear, 
but her impression was that she was exerting herself to 
refrain from some severe exercise of power or manifestation 
of anger. 

Nevertheless the queen, whom indisposition confined to 
her room, dismissed all her ladies but Florence, and on this 
evening was more particular than ever in her enquiries 
about the court at St. Germains, ashing questions which 
Florence found it very difiicult to answer truthfully, and 
fail to discover matters which it was not well should be 
known at the English court. 

After she had retired to her chamber for the night, she 
revolved in her mind for a long time the horrors attendant 
on poor Ashton’s execution on the next morning, and the 
grief of his wife, and at the same time an intense feeling of 
disgust and aversion stronger, if possible, than she had yet 
felt took possession of her soul for William and Mary. 

Casting herself on her knees, she prayed long and 
earnestly that the merciful God would support Ashton in 
his last moments, and open some avenue by which nho 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


131 


might bo restored to her friends, also for him still so dear 
to her, to whom she was betrothed, for the court at St. Ger- 
mains, and that God would touch tho heart of queen Mary. 
Then feeling more calm and collected, she prepared herself 
for rest. But the excitement of the previous week, and tho 
harrowing scene at the prison still so vividly in her recol- 
lection, did not by any means pave the way for a quiet, 
peaceful night. 

Ashton was still present in her sleeping hours, tho scene 
of his trial enacted over again ; Ashton as she had last seen 
him, subdued and sorrowful, and full of a holy resignation. 
Anon the scene changed, but it was still Ashton. This 
time he is going to pay the last penalty of the law. The 
terrible gibbet is before her eyes, tho gallows is erected, she 
hears the noise of the hammers as the workmen adjust the 
dreadful apparatus, and she started up in her bed, the hor- 
ror of her dream awaking her. Her face was bathed in a 
cold perspiration, and she glanced half in fear around her 
spacious chamber, almost trembling lest she should be con- 
fronted by some spectral vision of Ashton’s pale thin face, 
which had haunted her ever since she had seen him in 
prison. 

But, no ; the silvery moon-beams light up the room, and 
though there is nothing extraordinary to bo seen, still 
another sense, that of hearing, is now painfully on the alert, 
for she hears a noise from which was doubtless born that 
which had haunted her troubled slumbers. 

She sat up in her bed, and bent forwards in the attitude 
df one who listens intently ; and, at the same moment, a 
small Blenheim spaniel, which always slept on her hearth 
rug, leaped on tho bed, howling piteously. 

“Ah, gracious heaven,” she said to herself, “ I am right; 
that noise is the crackling of wood, and the sagacious little 
animal warns me of danger.” 


132 


FLOllEXC'B o’KEILL; OR, 


The next moment, Florence had leaped from her bed, the 
air was already hot, the oaken flooring on which she stood 
felt warm, and had, doubtless, alarmed the instinct of the 
dog. 

She hastily threw on a dressing-gown, put her feet in her 
slippers, snatched some valuable trinkets which lay on the 
table, and rushed from her room, closely followed by her dog. 

Her chamber was on the same side of the palace as the 
queen’s apartments ; she had no thought but to save 
her life. A thrilling shriek burst from her lips, for 
she was aware now she was in the gallery, that the next 
suite of apartments was in flames, and with the speed of an 
affrighted fawn, she fled to the queen’s room, giving the 
alarm as she hurried onwards, 

Mary was buried in a heavy sleep as Florence entered 
her room. This was no time for idle ceremony, the devour- 
ing element was within a few paces of the queen’s chamber. 

“ Awake, madam, awake,” shrieked the affrighted girl. 
“ Here, lean on me,” she added, dragging the queen, still 
half asleep, from her bed. ‘^Hasten for your life, we may 
not yet be in time, for we must go back the way I came.” 

The queen, still scarcely conscious, was thus half through 
the gallery, before a knot of ladies and servants had found 
their way to her chamber, and the fire had made such pro- 
gress that it was with difficulty they escaped with their 
lives. 

In her night dross only, the queen was hurried into St. 
James’ Park, still leaning heavily on the arm of her young 
maid of honor, the whole Park lighted up by the bright red 
glare from the burning palace. 

Accompanied by the ladies attached to her person, the 
distressed queen made her way hastily along in the direction 
of St. James’ Palace in this pitiable condition. But she 


THE SIEGE OE LIMERICK. 133 

was doomed to suffer still more mortification on this mem- 
orable night. 

An immense throng of persons had, by this time, assem- 
bled, and a cry of “ The queen, the queen,” was raised, 
as Mary crossed the Park on her way to the Palace of St. 
James. 

Amongst these persons were two gentlemen. Sir John 
Fenwick and Colonel Oglethorpe : they were both warmly 
attached to the interests of her father. 

Tho bright red glow from the burning palace revealed 
to them the pale features of her Majesty, who was speechless 
with fear, and the suddenness with which she had been 
dragged from her bed. For naturally a very heavy sleeper, 
she had not been aroused by the shrieks of Florence, ortho 
speedy alarm that had followed them. Indeed, sho was, so 
to speak, but half asleep when hurried out of her chamber. 

Sir John and tho Colonel followed her through tho Park, 
on her way to tho Palace ; it was too good an opportunity 
for these steady adherents of her father to let slip by with- 
out telling the queen the truth. Accordingly they reviled 
her with many hard words , they bade her remember that 
her filial sins would come home to her, sooner or later 
“and notoriously insulted her,” says another manuscript 
authority.* 

Doubtless, her savagely unfeeling conduct when she took 
possession of this very palace, the principal portion of 
which was consumed on that night, was still fresh in their 
minds, together with her shameful refusal to let her father 
have his personal wardrobe, or to restore to her unfortunate 
step-mother the cabinet of silver filligree which she had 
asked for. 


♦Birch M. S., British Museum. 
12 


134 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL; OK, 


The long gallery was burnt, together with most of the 
royal apartments, with those of the king’s officers and ser- 
vants, and many invaluable portraits and treasures. 

At length, overcome with terror, shame, and vexation, 
the queen reached the palace, and rooms were immediately 
prepared for her and her ladies, but to think of sleep again, 
during that terrible night, was out of the question. 

The reproaches levelled at her in the Park, in the pres- 
ence of others, were the more painful on account of their 
truthfulness. She was much dismayed, too, by the loss 
occasioned by this disastrous fire, as well as really ill from 
fright and exposure to the night air. 

On the following day she kept her room. The next 
morning she sent for Florence. I have very much to say 
to you, Florence,” said the queen, in a cold, frigid tone of 
voice. “ I will commence by observing that you are too 
young, methinks, to take so much upon yourself, as you 
have done ; there are many now in the Tower, and there 
are some who have been condemned to death for far less than 
you have been guilty of. Nay, do not start and turn pale, 
child, but hear me out. It has come to my knowledge that 
you have presumed to mix yourself up with the conspiracy, 
for which Mr. Ashton has, this morning, suffered the 
extreme penalty of the law. Nay, even whilst you have 
been about our person, and enjoying our patronage, you 
took the opportunity of a visit to your aged uncle, to dis- 
guise yourself, and seek Ashton in his prison but two days 
before his execution. I would ask if you have come here 
to help, by your puny efforts, those malcontents whom I am 
resolved to crush by the strong arm of the law ; if so, why 
should I not do by you as I do by others.” 

The tone of contempt, assumed by the queen, stung 
Florence to the quick ; but she was wholly in the queen’s 
power, and she replied : 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


135 


“ Gracious madam, I knew the unfortunate Ashton well, 
I crave your forgiveness for my stolen visit to him, but 
though I was aware I incurred the risk of your displeasure, 
I could not resist the desire I felt, once again, to visit him, 
before he suffered a violent death.” 

‘^Nor could you resist, young mistress, the wish to com- 
bine with those who have but suffered their just deserts. 
You have been within an ace of committal to the Tower; 
know you why you are pardoned ? I will tell you,” continued 
the queen, “ because you risked your own life to save mine 
on the night of the fire. On that night when I dismissed 
you, I had resolved to sign a warrant for your committal to 
the Tower on the morrow. Moreover, by your acts you 
have laid yourself open to the loss of the estates you will 
inherit from your uncle, and from Miss O’Neill, But my 
pardon is full and entire : in any other person’s case, within 
the whole of our kingdom, their lands would be forfeited to 
the crown, for far less contumacious behavior than your 
own. I forgive you. Mistress Florence, in memory of the 
night on which you periled your life to save my own.” 

It was as a part of the creed of Florence, to feel aversion 
for the princess who had usurped her father’s throne. Nev- 
ertheless, she felt, at that moment, an attraction to the 
queen such as she had never before experienced ; for well 
she knew, from the recent execution of Ashton^ how 
unsparingly she had inflicted death itself on those who had 
presumed to aid her hapless father towards the restoration 
of his rights. At that moment, too, the expression which 
had so often reminded Florence of the unfortunate king, 
flitted across his once beloved daughter’s face. For a brief 
period, she felt drawn towards the queen, whilst she ex- 
pressed her gratitude for the full pardon she had received, 
and her happiness that it had been in her power to aid her. 


136 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


“And now I expect, Mistress Florence, that you will 
make yourself contented in niy Court, and Hiix yourself up 
with no affairs of state in future, for rest assured, whatever 
you may think of the matter, you are no strong-minded 
heroine, but a very timid one, imprudent and rash withal ; 
find whilst you can do no possible good to those you love, 
may do very much mischief to yourself. As things now 
are, Mary of England cannot be unmindful of one to whom 
bhe doubtless owes her life, but had there been no fire at 
Whitehall, your own would have been in danger ; or, let 
us say your liberty,” she added, as though half sorry she 
had intimated the word “ life,” for a warm flush had man- 
tled the cheek of Florence, as she thought of the peril she 
had so narrowly escaped. 

Many conflicting feelings agitated her mind when she 
found herself in the solitude of her chamber. That Mary 
had had much to pardon in her conduct was no doubt, any 
more than the fact that the breaking out of the fire had been 
a providential thing for her ; for well she knew the queen 
would have made good her threat. Then again came the 
question, how had Mary found out that Florence had mixed 
herself up with the plot, for wlii^h Ashton suffered ; and, 
at last, she did not like to think he had been so craven- 
hearted as needlessly to mention her name. She could not 
help criminating Lord Preston, and her suspicion was a 
correct one, and she came also to the not unlikely conclusion 
that emissaries of the government were actively employed 
in tracing out the movements of all those who were known 
to be of the Jacobite party ; and that Mary’s suspicions once 
excited, it was no very difficult matter to discover how she 
had spent her time on the day in which she left the palace 
avowedly only to visit her uncle. 

That the young lady’s pride and self-love was deeply 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


137 


wounded by the almost pitying and eontemptuous language 
the queen had chosen to use, there was little cause for won- 
der, but she was compelled to own to herself that she was 
no match for Mary, and that it were wise to submit with a 
good grace, seeing that the queen had full power to do with 
her as best pleased herself. 

Well was it for her that the confusion on the morning 
following the fire had put out of her head poor Ashton’s 
execution. 

The scene with his wife and children on the previous 
evening had been heart-rending, but he died with courage 
and magnanimity.* He gave a paper to the SheriflF, in 
which he owned his attachment to King James, witnessed 
to the birth of the Prince of Wales, denied that he knew 
the contents of the papers that had been found upon him, 
complained of the hard treatment he had met with from the 
judges and declared that he forgave them before heaven. 


CHAPTER XXr. 

TUORNS IN THE DIADEM. 



AS Mary of England a happy woman after she 
had wrested the crown from her father’s brow ? 
Alas, no ; the path of wrong-doing and usur- 
pation never can bring contentment, even 
apart from the aggravation of filial ingratitude and treach- 
ery to one who, bo his faults what they may, was 
boundless in his indulgence to his children. From her 
first accession’ to tho throne her path had not been strewn 
with roses, though she is reported to have made a smart 


* Vide Smollett’s History. 
12 * 



138 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


repartee to her sister, who pitied her for the fatigue she 
suffered on the day of her coronation, replied: 

“ A crown, sister, is not so heavy as it appears.” 

The frenzied state of mind of the English people regard- 
ing religion proved Mary and William’s sheet-anchor. But 
for the fanaticism and intolerance which then reigned 
supreme, the partisans of the sailor-king were so numerous 
and influential that Mary never could have gained her 
unrighteous ends. 

Even as it was, throughout the whole of her short reign, 
her mind was always in a state of agitation on account of 
the numerous risings all over the country in favor of the 
hapless king she had dethroned. 

There can he little doubt in the minds of those who look 
impartially on the events which took place at the epoch of 
which we write, that the unfortunate Stuart race were in 
advance of the times in which they lived. After all, blame 
him as you may, James the Second asked but for that 
toleration of the down-trodden Catholics of these kingdoms 
which has been granlcd them in more tolerant and enlight- 
ened times.* 

The greatest offence, too, was taken at his admitting 
Catholics into the army, for it was a breach of the Test Act, 
by which, besides taking the oaths, they were obliged, 
under the penalty of forfeiting five hundred pounds, to 
receive the Sacrament according to the rites of the Church 
of England within six months of their admission into any 
employment, civil or military. 

For this, his most just and equitable attempt to relievo 
his Catholic subjects, as also for the Declaration of Liberty 
of Conscience, which he commanded the bishops to read in 
the churches, he has been most severely blamed ; but the 


*Rev. James Stanier Clarke’s Life of James the Sccoiul. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


139 


latter Lad been published a ■whole year before, so that it 
was no new thing. There was time enough to consider the 
matter, and, since many of them had complied with his wish, 
he most unfortunately grew obstinate, and thought himself 
justified in punishing with imprisonment zealous and worthy 
men like Bancroft, Kerr, and others who did not. 

And even with regard to this Declaration, what was it 
that was so outrageous in the attempt of the king ? Neither 
more nor less, we reply, than the heinous crime of trying to 
place the long sufiering, persecuted, trodden-down Catholic 
Church on a par with the Church of England. As we write 
these lines we have but one feeling, and that is of profound 
astonishment that men so good and upright and conscien- 
tious as those bishops undoubtedly were (their conduct 
later with regard to James, who had thrust them into the 
Tower, alone proves this) should have allowed their minds 
to be so swayed by the intolerance of the times as to have 
denied the liberty of conscience to their Catholic brethren 
which they so prized themselves. 

The uncompromising Bancroft was a sore thorn in Mary’s 
side. When she sent for his blessing he sent back word to 
her “ to ask her father’s blessing first, without which his 
would be useless.” He refused to crown her and her hus- 
band, as also to allow them to be prayed for as sovereigns, 
and with some four or five others, forsook their livings 
rather than violate their consciences. 

Alas, for Queen Mary, the crown, despite all her ambi- 
tion and love of power, must have been a weary weight 
oftentimes, during the short six years God permitted her to 
wear it. 

On the day of her coronation she received it laden with 
her father’s malediction, and to retain it she and her sister 
Anne spread the vilest reports as to the spurious birth of the 


140 


FLORENCE o’NEILL ; OR, 


Prince of Wales, then made religion, or rather the fanati- 
cism of the times, the stepping-stone for their usurpation. 
She celebrated as a glorious victory the disastrous battle of 
the Boyne, and had the standards and other spoils taken 
from her father borne in triumphant procession, and then 
hung up in St. James’ Chapel. 

The irritation such actions as these produced amongst 
the adherents of her father may be better imagined than 
described. 

Florence was now behind the scenes, and would have 
liked marvellously well to be enabled to transmit to the 
court at St. Germains faithful accounts as to how matters 
went on in the royal household, but no earthly being was 
near in whom she could confide, and her uncle was too 
aged, and, in fact, becoming too much of an invalid, to 
trust with any dangerous correspondence. 

Jealousies, too, long brooding between the queen and her 
sister, had at length burst out into a flame. It is somewhat 
amusing to note, in looking over the records of the past, how 
these two royal ladies conducted themselves after they had 
played into each other’s hands as far as their father was 
concerned. 

Behind the scenes ; yes, it is quite true, the truth cannot 
be concealed from dependents, whether our state be cast in 
the palace or the cottage, in public or in private life. I 
know not how it should be so, but that extremes oftentimes 
meet. Perhaps the diflerence in the disposition of her 
protegee to her own made Mary, in time, rather begin to 
like her than otherwise, as much as she could like any one 
beyond her husband. She must have known, too, that there 
was an aching void in the girl’s heart, caused by herself 
and of her own making, and so endeavored to make some 
small atonement for tire tyrannical restraint she put upon 
her, by a meagre show of sympathy and kindness. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


141 


Any way, Florence was more frequently with her than 
any of her other maids of honor, and, consequently, she 
was privy to many a sorrow that the outer world recked 
little of. 

Submissive wife ! how well your Dutch lord rewarded you 
is no new matter. 

“ That property — whose was it, indeed, but the private 
fortune of my father, inherited from the Earldoms of Ulster 
and Clare — I asked him to give it for the endowments of 
public schools; and, oh, how bitter, Elizabeth Villiers, my 
rival in his affections, is to have it all; it is very, very 
hard,” and as she spoke, a low, anguished sob from the 
queen burst forth, betraying the deep misery of her heart. 

Unheard, unnoticed, Florence had entered the boudoir, 
an unwilling witness of Queen Mary’s grief. She 
coughed aloud in order to attract her attention. Tn her 
own mind she thought it no great loss that the Irish, so 
grievously afflicted during the reign of William, had lost 
the benefit of the schools Mary would have endowed to per- 
vert them from their faith ; but of the infamy of the use the 
king had put the property to there could be no doubt. 

But the joy expressed in her countenance whenever Wil- 
liam of Orange honored Kensington with his presence, was 
enough to show the happiness she felt ; and when he 
scolded, which, morose as he was, was not unfrcquently the 
case, she was too submissive a wife to repine, but bore with 
the greatest patience the caprices and outbreaks of his sar- 
castic and cynical temper. 

Behold them settled in their new palace, only for a sea- 
son ; for, as usual, the king’s sojourns in England were 
short and interrupted. Florence held him in horror. Such 
coarseness as he was guilty of she had not been in the habit 
of witnessing. It was his inhospitality and vulgarity at the 


142 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 

dinner-table wliich had so disgusted her uncle ; and once, 
with unmitigated disgust, she beheld him, when a small dish 
of peaches, the first of the season, were put on the table, 
draw the whole before him, and devour them without offer- 
ing one to the queen. She was not surprised, however, 
because she had heard Lady Marlborough mention, as an 
incident of the same kind, that the Princess Anne, having 
dined with the king and queen, some green peas were 
placed before her, but the king, having a mind to them, ate 
them without offering any to her or the queen. 

Early one morning, a very short time after the king had 
returned to Kensington, Florence, being from habit an 
early riser, was just finishing her toilette, when the old, 
awful sound she had heard the night of the'fire at Whitehall 
again broke upon her ears, but mingled with the roar of 
flames and the crackling of wood rose the voice of the king 
shouting for his sword. His sword,” thought Florence, 
“ is he bereft of his senses? ” But, no ; as with his wife, 
the case was the same with him. They had treacherously 
usurped the crown, and so they imagined treachery always 
busy about themselves. The king had mistaken the noise 
occasioned by the destructive element, and the outcries of 
his attendants, for an attack upon his palace. And amidst 
all the horror and alarm of an awful fire, the risible facul- 
ties of Florence were aroused to a degree of mirth she could 
with difficulty conceal, on meeting the king in one of the 
adjacent galleries hastening forward, as one demented, and 
calling loudly for his sword.* 

“It is fire, your Majesty,” said Florence; “ sec, your 
attendants are coming to apprize you of it. We had best 
hasten away, the rooms near the stone gallery arc in 
flames.” 


♦Tyndal’s Continuation of Rapier. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEIIICK. 


143 


She was coi’rect. It was found to bo accidental, and it 
was some time before the flames could be subdued. 
Treachery had nothing to do with these two calamities 
which pursued the king and queen, one quickly after the 
other. Nevertheless, that they should suspect treason 
lurked under all the untoward accidents of life, showed 
clearly that they knew they had just cause for apprehension. 


CHAPTER XXII. 



THE COCK-PIT ; OR, THE HOME OP THE PRINCESS ANNE. 

flUCH was the name of the residence which 
Charles the Second bestowed upon his niece, 
when she became the bride of Prince George 
of Denmark. 

This mansion was adjacent to the palace of Whitehall, 
and was built by Henry the Eighth, who was, doubtless, 
well flttcd to enjoy the brutal sport signified by the name 
the palace bore. 

In a boudoir, tastefully decorated, adorned with hang- 
ings of pale blue and amber satin, a lady is seated, with an 
open letter in her hand. Her face is round and pleasant- 
looking, rather than handsome ; she has rich chestnut hair, 
and a high color ; the eyelids arc contracted, arising from 
inflammation in the eyes in her childhood, and those who 
do not' know the cause of this contraction, which imparts a 
sort of frown to the expression of an otherwise pleasing 
countenance, might think it the effect of a sullen temper. 

Standing, or rather reclining, against the chimney-piece, 
is a lady of bold and masculine demeanor. Her very 
appearance is that of a woman who will fight hard to carry 



141 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OK, 


any point in view. Sho is exasperated just now, and she 
nervously beats the ground with her foot, and picks oif the 
waxen leaves of a camelia in a vase just by. 

The lady we first mentioned is Anne, Princess of Den- 
mark. The imperious dame beside her is the notorious 
Sarah Churchill, afterwards Duchess of Marlborough. 

“ Refused, and refused in such a way ! ” said the princess, 
in a tone of indignation, again perusing her letter as she 
spoke. 

“ Yes,” was the reply, “ and to dare refuse your request 
after all that my lord has done in Ireland. I really do not 
know how to contain myself, I feel so irritated, so enraged.” 

“ And yet the refusal of my request, contemptuously as 
it is worded, is not worse for you than what the prince and 
myself have had to suffer at the hands of Caliban. Could 
anything be worse than that Dutch monster’s leading him 
to believe that he might servo him as a volunteer at sea, and 
then when he has made his preparations, and sent all on 
board the ship ho was to sail in, my sister forsooth refuses 
to let him go with the fleet ? What do you think our feel- 
ings were when Rochester, whom we both love so dearly, 
was sent to explain the queen’s pleasure ‘ that Prince 
George was to relinquish his intention of going to sea, and 
let it appear as if he did so of his own free will.’ Then 
when she found he would not submit to such a message, 
privately sent, there comes one in form to forbid his 
embarkation.”* 

“ Yes, madam, and it is a marvel to mo how you can 
submit so patiently, and after giving up your place in the 
succession, too, to that Caliban, as you so justly call him, 
how you can meet the queen as if nothing had happened 
after such signal affronts, fills me with astonishment ; but I, 


♦Dalrymple’s Appendix. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


145 


madam, am not so placable. The Order of the Garter is 
but a due reward to my husband’s merit, and instead of 
taking that into consideration, the queen refuses, and 
eouchcs her refusal in the most contemptuous terms.” 

“There is nothing to be done but to submit, my dear 
friend,” said the princess. “I cannot help your disap- 
pointment. You well know what we ourselves are called 
on to undergo, and how my sister’s anger has been excited 
by the pension of fifty thousand pounds having been granted* 
to me. We cannot help ourselves while this Caliban lives.” 

“ I pray you, madam, do not trouble on my account,” 
replied Lady Marlborough. “ I cfo know what you and the 
prince have to put up with, but a sunshiny day may yet 
come when we shall be rewarded for what we are at present 
made to undergo.” 

Lady Marlborough sat her down, and was buried in 
thought for a few moments. Vague ideas were floating 
through her mind as to whether they could not conspire with 
other disaffected ones, and so hurl the Dutch monarch aihd 
his consort from the possession of the regal power. 

Meanwhile the unsuspecting Anne was thinking of 
Florence, and wondering why her sister should detain her 
at the court. 

“ What think you of Florence O’Neill?” she remarked. 

“ Is it not strange the queen should keep her near her per- 
son. That young Jacobite’s head has hatched plots already, 
she tells me, young as she is.” 

• “ Nay, madam, mayhap her majesty wishes to keep the 

young lady out of further mischief. She keeps a watchful 
eye, depend on it. A long head, too, that girl has got. 
She does not like Caliban, I am certain; she was so amused 
at certain anecdotes I told her about him, and yet was silent 
herself.” . 

13 


J4G 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


“ But tUo (jueeu found her at mischief once,” replied 
Antie. My sister told mo herself that but for that girl 
saving her life when the palace at Whitehall was on fire, 
she knew that about her that she searce thinks confinement 
in the Tower would have atoned for. She may have learned 
a lesson of prudence since then, and have a wholesome fear 
of the queen’s wrath.” 

And what a life for the girl to lead, madam. She is 
only like a prisoner, you know — a sort of captive, nothing 
’else. Think, too, what the St. Grermains people must 
endure about her. Why, the late queen loved the girl as 
though she were her own child, and the queen knows it. 
Then, too, she is kept unmarried ; I really pity her. But, 
do you know, madam, sueh strange thoughts wore running 
through my head when you spoke to mo of Florence 
O’Neill.” 

“And, pray, what was the tenor of your thoughts ? ” 
asked the princess. 

“ If the king over the water were here, madam, then wo 
should not suffer at the hands of Caliban.” 

“ Ah, no, the monster,” said Anne, laughing at the 
epithets which she and her favorite applied to the Dutch 
monarch when together, unconscious that they had a house- 
hold spy in Lady Fitzharding, the sister of Elizabeth ViU 
liers, through whom the king and queen always knew, in a 
very few hours, all that happened at the Cock-pit, and also 
every hard and abusive name that was applied to William.”* 

“ Would it be quite out of the question to apply to the 
king, madam ; to the late king, I mean? ” , 

Lady Marlborough was coming more directly to the 
point she had in view. 


'^Coxe’s Life of Marlborotigh. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


147 


The princess flushed very painfully; her favorite was 
touching on a delicate subject. Anne had disseminated the 
vilest slanders as to the birth of the Prince of Wales, and 
had done all that lay in her power to despoil her father of 
his crown ; how shall she retrace the steps she has trod ; how 
undo the mischief she has wrought: sincere repentance can 
alone atone for the latter, the injury is far beyond her power 
to repair. 

The imperious favorite saw the agitation of her mistress 
and again returned to the topic. 

“ No more of this,” replied the princess, “ I charge you 
let the subject drop.” 

Lady Marlborough submitted for the present, but only to 
bring it forwards later, with what result the reader shall 
presently become acquainted. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE DUKE OF TYRCONNELL, AND SARSFIELD, LORD LUCAN. 

T is a soft, summer night, serene and peace- 
ful; all nature is hushed, the moon-beams 
play on the surface of the waters, and light up 
' the flowery dells and glades around Limerick. 
Not a sound is heard for a few brief hours, when prepara- 
tions will be made for the coming strife. 

There was much suffering within the city. The foremost 
to relieve and succor, out of her own store, was the brave 
woman, Catherine O’Neill, who had in her own heart some- 
thing of the spirit of her kinsman, Sarsfield. 

* This worthy general, now Lord Lucan, for King James 



* J. S. Clarke’s Memoirs of James II. 


148 


FLORENCE o’nEILL J OR, 


had sent him the patent of an earldom, had, together ^vith 
Lord Tyrconnell, put the town in a state of defence, and 
had induced the ofl&cers and soldiers to make oath that they 
would defend the* rights of J ames to the last. But in spite 
of this oath, there were factious and desponding spirits 
whose whole thoughts were bent on a treaty with the Dutch 
King. 

On the night in question, Tyrconnell and Sarsfield held 
a conference with a few of the chief officers, amongst whom 
were the notorious Colonel Luttrell, Sir Reginald, now 
Major St. John, and Major Sheldon Sarsfield, who was a man 
of commanding stature. The expression of his countenance 
was one of determination ; ho possessed all the qualities 
necessary for the onerous position he occupied. 

Factious spirits were, however, within the camp, and it 
required all his influence amongst those whom he com- 
manded, to tame them into submission. 

“ What is to bo done,” exclaimed Colonel Luttrell, who 
was at the head of the desponders, “ money has been ordered 
to bo sent from France. But how are we to wait, reduced, 
as we are, to the greatest extremity. The discontent of the 
army will increase, and capitulate in spite of us, my lords,” 
he added, addressing the General and the Lord Lieutenant. 

This thought had likewise crossed the minds of them to 
whom he spoke, averse as they were to entertain such an 
idea. 

‘ ‘ Do not let us dream of capitulation whilst we are still 
in a position to wield a sword,” said Sir Reginald. “ The 
men aro becoming discouraged, it is true, on account 
of the extremities to which they are reduced, but they are 
still faithful. Nay, I believe one-third of William’s army 
would come over to Us, as Lord Tyrconnell said months 
since, could \vc but give them each a trifle of money and 
maintain them afterwards.” ^ 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


149 


“But you see, Major St. John, we cannot support the 
troops we have, much less find money to obtain others,” said 
Luttrell, in a satirical tone of voice. “I have maintained 
all along, and do so still, finding the French King so slow 
in sending supplies, that I believe the end of it will bo 
capitulation, though I see perfectly well that few are of my 
opinion.” 

“Have patience yet twenty days,” said Tyrconnell. 
“We shall know by then if we act in accordance with the 
king’s wish in laying down our arms.” 

His request was assented to, but the impatient and 
treacherous Luttrell entered into secret negotiations with 
the commanding officer of William’s troops, enquiring what 
conditions would be granted in case they submitted. 

Sarsfield, ever full of zeal in the service of James, found 
out the treasonable correspondence that was being carried on. 

A few mornings after this conference, he observed a 
young man, evidently a stranger, loitering about with a 
letter in his hand, and looking as if in search of some one. 

“Whom do you want, friend?” said Sarsfield, observing 
that he was a stranger, and an Englishman. 

“ Colonel Luttfell, your honor. The letter is from Gen- 
eral Ginckle’s quarters,” and the man touched his hat as he 
spoke. 

“It is right, friend; tell your master it has fallen into 
safe hands,” exclaimed Sarsfield, taking the letter, and, in 
the greatest agitation, making his way to Tyrconnell. 

Thus this letter, intended for Luttrell, fell into the hands 
of Sarsfield. It was read by the latter and Tyrconnell, and 
proved to be part of a secret and treasonable correspondence 
with the enemy. Luttrell was at once tried by a court- 
martial, and then put into prison. 

It often happens that the body, enfeebled with age and. 

13 * 


150 


FLORENCE o’NEILL ; OR, 


infirmity, yields or succumbs, wbilst the mind remains in 
full vigor ; thus it was with Tyrconnell. He and the brave 
General Sarsfield had had many points of ‘ difference, but 
were now on terms of agreement together. Little did 
either of them imagine on that night, when the conference 
was held, in the beginning of the second week of August, 
that on the feast of St. Lawrence, the gallant Tyrconnell 
would receive his death stroke. 

Latterly his every thought had been given to the approach- 
ing contest, and how to make it a decisive one in favor of the 
late king, together with earnest endeavors to calm turbulent 
and factious spirits, to a certain degree, aided by Sarsfield 
who was deservedly beloved. He had succeeded, but the 
strain on the earl’s mind had been too great for his failing 
strength and advancing years. 

On the morning of the Feast of St. Lawrence he heard 
Mass. On his return homo he fell back in his chair, seized 
with a fit of apoplexy; he recovered his senses and his 
speech, but only to languish for two days, when he expired 
in the midst of the calamities he had been striving to over- 
come. 



THE SIEGE OP LIMERICK. 


151 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE BESIEGED CITY. 

MMEDIATELY after his death, the troops 
of the Dutch King proceeded to within five 
miles of the city. The negotiations with 
Luttrell made them deem it unnecessary to 
bring their cannon^ but the French officer entrusted with 
the command by Sarsfield, ordering troops into the town 
on the Clare side, Ginckle prepared for a formal siege, 
and waited for his artillery. 

Five days of suspense for the inhabitants of the besieged 
city, and then the troops of the usurper William put them- 
selves before the place. 

Days of sorrow for Limerick, though ended by a treaty 
alike advantageous and honorable, had its terms been kept 
by the English. 

Alas, for the horrors and calamities of war, when famine 
and carnage walk hand-in-hand through the land, laying 
desolate and ravaging its fairest spots — when rapine 
and sacrilege, and wholesale murder are perpetrated, and 
made just in the eyes of those who commit them, because 
it is the time of war. 

There was a brave woman in Limerick, whose youth, 
and strength, and health had all passed away, for even 
middle age was on the wane. In the midst of the horrors, 
when terror-stricken women pressed their little ones to 
their bosoms, and the young and the tender wailed for 
bread, she was in the midst of them. Bombarding had 
commenced ; shells were falling thick and fast ; churches 
and houses became a wreck to the fury of the assailants, 
and many a .till then flourishing homestead, was laid in 



152 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


ruins. In one of these doomed houses was Catherine 
O’Neill, speaking words of comfort to a knot of helpless 
women and still more helpless babes. Thick and fast came 
the dropping shells, and in this house the cousin of Sars- 
field met her death with some half-dozen of her female 
friends, and their helpless children clustered around her.* 

At last a breach is made where stands the old Abbey 
of St. Dominick, and even then the garrison, better prepared 
than they supposed the army of William, were on the point 
of abandoning the undertaking, when, by the scandalous 
neglect, to give it no harsher name, of Clifford, one of 
James’ English officers, William’s troops were allowed to 
make a bridge of boats, and thus to pass their horses and 
dragoons across the Shannon, and so cut between the Irish 
horse commanded by Sheldon and St, John, and the town 
itself. 

Sarsfield bit his lips in almost uncontrollable anger, for 
having foreseen this danger, he had given Clifford 
fifteen hundred dragoons to oppose any such attempt, ho 
having the camp within two miles of him, and the town 
within three. 

“ Ruined, undone by folly and treachery combined,” ex- 
claimed Sarsfield, when this wretched tidings was brought 
to him. “Instead of giving opposition, or even noticing 
what was being done, has he positively suffered our enemy 
to make a bridge under his very eyes.” 

Sheldon and St. John were alike dismayed ; the first they 
knew of the attempt was that William’s troops had actually 
passed, and that Clifford was retreating towards them. 

Furious at this scandalous neglect, and foreseeing the 
consequences which were certain to result from it, all they 


• Clarke’s Memoirs of James II. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


153 


could do was to stop the besieging army at a pass, till they 
could gain the mountains with their horse dragoons, and so 
make way to Six Mile Bridge. ‘ 

Literally fighting their way through the troops of the 
usurper, the little party of men under St. John and Shel- 
don at last accomplished their object, but not being able to 
remain, were ordered back toward Clare. And now the 
great body of horse and dragoons have passed over their 
bridge of boats, and present themselves before Thomond 
Gate. 

Leading, as it were, a forlorn hope, one brave officer. 
Colonel Lacy, with a small body of 700 men, disputed their 
approach bravely. Like lions, did he and his little party 
fight, but the odds are against them, the valiant Lacy is 
overpowered, not by bravery or courage, but by the mere 
force of superior numbers, and a constant supply of fresh 
men on the part of his assailants. Again he and his little 
band of stout Milesian hearts rally, and repossess them- 
selves of the ground from which they had been driven, but 
the odds are still against them, and unable to resist they 
make towards the gate. 

Alas, alas, for that brave little band that day cut to 
pieces at Thomond ,Gate, the craven-hearted mayor of the 
town, fearing the English would enter, dared to shut it 
against his own people, and the greater part of that devoted 
little party were butchered in cold blood. 

Despair seized upon the general officers, the enemy was 
between them and the horse, which would perish for want 
of provender. How could they hold out without horse or 
dragoons, or if they raise the siege, where are their means 
of feeding the fort ? 

“ Propose a treaty,” said Monsieur de Usson and other 
French officers, but the Irish officers arc mindful of their 


154 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


oath. Until the bishop and divines of Limerick remind 
them, that blocked up as they were on every side, and thus 
unable to hear from the king should his answer even come, 
it was impossible for them to keep to the letter of their 
oath. 

Sarsfield beheld the forts taken and their condition des- 
perate, yet he had the courage to insist on, and the dex- 
terity to obtain articles not only for the security of the 
people of Limerick, but also for the whole of Ireland. Con- 
sulting the honor and advantage of his royal master James, 
in getting leave for his men to go, and even ships to trans- 
port them into France, should they still desire to follow his 
fortunes and adhere to his service, which with those who 
had gone previously, clinging to the fortunes of the ex- 
king brought, from first to last nearly 30,000 men into the 
kingdom of France, 12,000 men chose at once rather to 
undergo exile from their native land than submit to tho 
government of the Dutch usurper. Nowhere, indeed, had 
the ill-fated James more staunch supporters than his Irish 
subjects. 

But vainly can we attempt to describe the embittered 
feelings of the Earl of Lucan and his faithful followers, 
when, a very few days later, the dawn of the early morning 
showed them a French fieet on the coast, comprising 
eighteen ships of the line, with 30,000 arms, and also stores 
of provisions and ammunition. 

Assistance so near, and yet they had been compelled to 
yield. The feeling in the mind of Lucan and the more 
intrepid and earnest of his followers was, that but for 
impatient and 'factious men like Luttrell, the kindly aid of 
the magnificent Louis would not have proved ineffectual. 


TUE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


155 


CHAPTER XXV, 



THE MINIATURE. 

IIASTLY sights met the eyes of Lord Lucan 
after the capitulation. The remains of his 
heroic cousin, lying amongst the dead, filled 
his heart with poignant grief ; and he stood 
some time, lost in his melancholy thoughts, beside her 
remains and those of the little ones who had fallen by 
her side, when the voice of his faithful servant Dennis 
aroused him. 

The poor honest-hearted fellow could scarcely speak for 
emotion. At last, after two or three inarticulate efforts, he 
managed to say : 

“ Arrah, thin, Gineral dear, the murtherous Saxons have 
done black work, bad cess to them for that same ; but I 
come to tell ye there’s one English ofl&cer. Major St. John, 
just afther dying, as I may say, and he begs to see ye, Gin- 
eral ; he is mortal bad, and has had two ugly wounds. He 
keeps saying, ‘ Fetch me the Gineral,’ and I tell you his 
spirit can’t go in peace till he sees you.” 

“ Come with me, Dennis, and show me where he is; I 
will go to him at once.” 

Dennis led the way to the hospital, in which extra beds 
were being hastily improvised. All around lay the wounded 
and the dying, their 'white faces looking ghastly, as though 
already the life had departed. 

On a low settle bed lay' Sir Reginald, grievously 
wounded in the right arm and left shoulder. Ho was 
rambling incoherently when Sarsfield approached his couch. 
A surgeon, assisted by a Sister of Charity, was binding up 
his wounds. 


15G 


FLOEENCE o’NEILL ; OE, 


He was talking of bis early English home, of the happy 
scenes of childhood, forever gone — ■ 

“Yet who for power would not mourn, 

That ho no more must know ; 

Ills fair red castle on the hill, 

And the pleasant lands below,’’ 

These beautiful lines, of one of our English bards, might 
well answer for such as Sir Reginald St. John. 

But as Lord Lucan listens he discovers that the incoher- 
ent wanderings of St. John are not the mere ramblings of 
delusion, for words like these fell from his lips ; 

“ Yes, it was all my fault ; I took Benson to the Grange, 
/induced her uncle to go to London. But for my sin and 
folly in that matter, my Florence, my betrothed one, would 
never have been seen at the hateful Mary’s court.” 

“Aye, a light breaks upon me, then,” thought Lord 
Lucan; “you have done mischief. Major, now I can 
account for that which has perplexed me — the reason of 
your sad, dejected countenance and constant fits of abstrac- 
tion. It was through you, then, my kinswoman, Florence, 
has got about that thrice accursed court.” 

The good General, however, kept down all expression of 
what he really felt, and bending his ear low so as to catch 
the words which fell in broken sentences, and taking the 
cold hand of St. John within his own, he lent an attentive 
car to what he thought the last injunctions of a dying friend. 

“ Will you give my Florence this — and this ? ” he mur- 
mured, giving Sarsfield a small miniature of himself, set 
with diamonds, together with an unsealed letter. 

“ On my faith as a soldier and a gentleman, I promise to 
do as you request,” replied Sarsfield, much moved. 

“ That letter I wrote lest I should fall in battle,” he 
resumed. “It begs her to forgive the folly which my 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


157 


loyalty to William led me to commit ; for, but for me, sbo 
bad never been at the court of Mary. It begs her to think 
with tenderness of my memory, when she looks upon that 
likeness, if I die ; and if I live, it releases her from the 
engagement she has made to one whom the Princo of 
Orange has made an outlaw and a beggar. Tell me, once 
more, my lord, will you undertake to — to promise, that in 
some way my Florence shall — shall surely have these tokens 
of — of our betrothal, and — and — ” 

But St. John had lost all power to proceed. The cold 
fingers which had tightly grasped Sarsfield’s hand relaxed 
their hold, a pallor like that of death overspread his face, 
and bis head fell heavily on the pillow. 

“Is there any hope, think you?” said Lord Lucan, 
addressing the surgeon. 

“ Very little, my lord; the gentleman has been badly 
wounded. I would be sorry to give an opinion at present, 
but it is a very bad case ; it is more than probable it will 
prove a fatal one.” 

Lord Lucan carefully placed the letter and miniature in 
bis breast pocket, resolving to carry them with him to 
France, as amongst the ladies at the exiled court there 
might probably be one who could undertake, through her 
friends, to transmit the packet safely to Florence. Ho 
then visited the beds of other officers, as well as of the men 
who had received severe wounds at the hands of the enemy, 
and ended the painful duties of a very melancholy day, 
assembling those under his command, exhorting them to 
peaceable and quiet living, and inquiring into the number 
of the men who intended to become exiles rather than sub- 
mit to the usurper’s yoke. 


14 


158 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE SUADOW OF THE GRAVE. 



It is a lovely evening in Autumn, that season of 
the year in which the bright green foliage of 
Summer gives place to those varied tints which 
constitute the chief charm of woodland scenery. 

The queen and her court arc at Kensington, the king’s 
favorite palace, ho being daily expected in England ; and as 
the baronet’s health had not improved sufficiently to allow- 
of his return to Morville, the proximity of his house to the 
palace gave Florence the opportunity of frequently visiting 
him. 

On one of these visits ho surprised her by handing to her 
a small packet. It had reached the baronet’s hands through 
a private channel, and from their renowned kinsman, Sars- 
field, Lord Lucan. 

Florence grew red and white by turns, as, with cold and 
trembling fingers, she untied the silken ribbon that fastened 
the packet. 

The first letter she opened was from Lord Lucan. It ran 
as follows; 


My Dear Florence: 

In compliance with the request of a bravo officer, who has been 
fighting under my command, I transmit to you the enclosed. I 
also beg, at the same time, to acquaint you with the death of your 
aunt, the amiable and beloved Catherine O’Neill. She was killed 
by a shell falling on her house whilst the town was bombarded, at 
a moment in which she was actively engaged in comforting and 
helping those who had flocked around her. 

I am glad to tell you that the writer of the enclosed letter, writ- 
ten by him several weeks since, is pronounced out of danger. As 
soon as ho recovers sufficiently to travel, he will accompany me to 
St. Germains. 


THE SIEGE OP LIMERICK. 


159 


1 mTist not forget to add that all cousin Catherine’s wealth is 
bequeathed to yourself. 

I hope, my dear Florence, that the day is not far distant when I 
shall have the pleasure of assisting at your nuptials with one who 
was the best and bravest of my late officers. 

I remain, dear Florence, 

Your affectionate Cousin, 

Lucan. 

Well did Florence remember that good aunt of her’s, and 
tears fell to that memory long before she had reached the 
end of her letter. 

Then Florenee unfolded a sheet of paper containing a few 
hastily written lines, of the purport of which the reader is 
already aware. Within them was wrapped the miniature, a 
welcome' souvenir indeed. 

She sat still a long while pondering over the contents of 
that last letter, and angry with herself, after all, that any 
thought should distract her from sorrow at the sudden and 
violent death of her aunt. 

Of course Sir Reginald had been long since forgiven ; 
had he not perilled his life in fighting for the cause of King 
James ? She had riches enough for both, notwithstanding his 
confiscated estates ; but the trouble now would be to escape 
from her present thraldom. She had no hope of being able 
to do so even had she been this moment free. Could she 
leave that aged man, whose days were fast drawing to a 
close, and who was clinging to her as a father to a beloved 
child. 

“I will leave them with you, uncle dear,” she said, 
kneeling by his bedside, and placing the letters and 
miniature in his hand ; “you will take care of them forme. 
It is hard to part with them, but I dare not have them at 
the palace under my care. Is it not hard to bear this 
restraint? What right has the queen to keep me there 
against my will ? ” 


160 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


"No right, my child, hut by her power. Moreover, I 
fancy she is as much attached to you as she can be to any 
one.'’ 

" The queen cares for no one but her husband, uncle. 
But, hark, there is the sound of carriage wheels ; it tells 
me my time is up. Farewell, my own dear uncle, till 
to-morrow. I shall come and see you every day whilst I 
am in Kensington.” 

On her return she was summoned to attend the queen. 
After a few common-place remarks respecting the health of 
her uncle, the queen said : 

“ Do you remember Count Von Arnheim, a very hand- 
some young officer, high in favor of the king ? He holds a 
very honorable post at the Hague, and accompanied the 
king to England on his last visit hither.” 

" Yes, madam, I do remember such a person slightly.” 

"The king has formed intentions respecting him which 
we mutually hope will not be displeasing to our proiegh, 
Florence O’Neill. The Count has a fine estate near the 
Hague, and as he is a favorite of the king’s, I need not tell 
you that his interests will be cared for.” 

Florence sat like a statue, pale and speechless, whilst the 
queen delivered this tirade. When the queen paused, 

" Madam,” she said, " I beg the king and yourself to 
accept my grateful thanks for your kind intentions, but I 
cannot marry Count Von Arnheim.” 

" Not marry him, and why ? Ho is handsome, amiable, 
and wealthy. Surely you are not encouraging any further 
attachment to the traitor St. John?” 

" Spare me, gracious madam,” said the girl, rising, and 
then leaning against a chair for support ; ‘ • I have no 
intention to marry ; it is impossible for me to wed the 
Count.” 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


161 


“ The king Trill he displeased that you should reject an 
alliance which we have thought well of. Still more, should 
he deem that you persist in your rejection of the Count 
because you encourage still an attachment for the outlaw St, 
John. With no friends in England but your uncle, who 
will not tarry long, it is something worse than foolish to 
refuse overtures which the king and myself consider it will 
be for your advantage to accept.” 

“ It is simply impossible, your Majesty, that I can ever 
marry Count Von Arnheim.” 

“ I see well how it is,” replied the queen ; “ also, that I 
have pressed the matter too much. The Count is coming 
here along with the king in a few weeks ; you will over- 
come this reluctance.” 

“ Madam, spare me any overtures on the part of the 
Count,” said Florence; “my mind will remain unaltered ; 
I shall never marry him.” 

“ I see that you are obstinate,” was the reply. “ Time 
effects great changes. Before very long you may be as 
anxious to complete this match as you are now violently 
opposed. Obstinacy is the prevailing characteristic of the 
dispositions of certain members of my own family. It is 
that of my own sister, and her positiveness in retaining 
those mischievous favorites of hers, the Marlboroughs, are 
a proof of it. She will have to yield, and so will you.” 

Florence stood as one bewildered, as, uttering these' 
words, the queen — her majestic, portly figure erect as a 
dart, and her countenance expressive of anger— left the 
room. 

“Was ever any one in this world more tormented,^’ 
sighed she as, entering her own apartment, she sat down, 
and thought over the events of the last few hours “ With 
no friend or relative in London but the dear old man, who 
14 * 


162 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


will not, I fear, linger long, as the queen coldly reminded 
me, and unable to get over to France, what step can I take 
to guard myself against this new tyranny ? ” 

Then she sat still for a time, but her tears fell fast. She 
might seem to be looking out, as she sat at the open win- 
dow, on the prospect in the distance, for the last rays of the 
sun were setting, and the tops of the tall trees and the 
stately mansions in the distance were lighted up by its 
golden beams, the clouds tipped with the brightest hues of 
the ruby and amethyst. 

“ I am rich, and what does my wealth do for me,” sighed 
the girl. ‘ ‘ Better be the daughter of a poor cottager on 
my uncle’s estate, or of some humble peasant woman in IcC 
helle France, than suffer as I do. What is the use of 
wealth, I wonder,” she rambled on, “ when one cannot do 
as one pleases ? I would do much good if I could but be 
left alone, and try to put to good account what God has 
given me, yes I am sure, I am sure I would. Riches I 
would make a passport to heaven, unless my nature changes ; 
but, will they ever make me happy, I wonder, this wealth that 
people covet so; I shall have in abundance, but deprived 
of my liberty, I am worse off than the poorest woman in 
England.” 

She was silent for a little while, then suddenly a perplex- 
ing thought filled her ; she rose and walked about the room, 
then sat her down and rambled on again. 

“Well, if this bo the case, then, indeed, I am undone,” 
she said. “ I heard the Lady Marlborough say, that the 
queen was so angry that the Princess Anne got the pension 
from the government, because she wanted the money to help 
the king with his continental wars. Von Arnheim is one 
of his foreign subjects and a favorite ; is it possible, that 
from intereked motives they are trying to force me into a 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


163 


marriage with this man. If so, the deaths of the only two 
relations from whom my wealth is derived, at this particular 
juncture, is favorable to any scheme they may have formed. 
Shall they have their way then, shall the queen force me 
into compliance ? No, not while Reginald lives, or even if I 
am to have the pang of hearing of his death, she shall shut 
me up in the gloomy old Tower first.” 

The more Florence suflfered her mind to dwell on this 
new idea, the more convinced she became that an ulterior 
motive was at the bottom of the marriage they were evi- 
dently about to coerce her into making, and the more terri- 
fied she became, at the near prospect there evidently was 
of her uncle’s death. The queen, early in the first year of 
her regal power, dismissed all Catholics from the vicinity 
of the metropolis, and Florence was at no loss to guess why 
her invalid uncle was sufiFered to dwell at Kensington, or 
she herself in the palace, and could no longer shut her eyes 
to the fact that she would ere long be subjected to some 
cruel tyranny, unless some fortuitous chance occurred in 
her favor. 

Warned at last by a sudden chillness seizing her whole 
frame, she closed the open window near which she had been 
seated. 

The moon had sunk beneath a cloud, and the sky now 
looked wild and stormy, a wind had arisen, and a few rain 
drops, pattering against the window, betokened an approach- 
ing storm. 

“Dark as is my own fate, oh, my God support me,” 
sighed the girl, whilst her eyes filled with bitter tears ; but 
even as she turned away, one bright star shone out in the 
canopy of heaven, whilst all around was black and gloomy. 
Call it imagination, call it enthusiasm or what you will, 
that bright star appeared to her as a presage that all would 


164 


FLOKENCE o’nEILL J OR, 


yet be well, an answer to the aspiration she bad uttered, the 
almost wild cry which, in the agony of her heart, she had 
sent up to heaven for help. Turning from the casement, 
she fell upon her knees, and with uplifted hands prayed long 
and earnestly for guidance and assistance, and then soothed 
and comforted, and sustained by the providence of the 
God in whom she placed an unwavering trust, she slept in 
the midst of the dangers that beset her path, the calm, 
peaceful sleep of an infant cradled by the protecting arm 

. of its mother. 

% 

On the morrow when she sought the queen, she observed 
that her manner was cold and restrained to herself, but more 
than usually free and pleasant with the other ladies, and it 
was a relief to Florence when business on matters of State 
summoned the queen to her cabinet, and left her free to 
visit her uncle. 

The baronet was propped up by pillows, and she observed, 
with a shudder, that a change had taken place since she 
was with him the previous evening. She had never stood 
face to face with death, had never before been present when 
the spirit was passing away from its earthly tenement, con* 
scquently, she was not aware that the grey shadow which 
seemed to rest upon his countenance, was the shadow that 
betokens speedy dissolution ; had she been conscious of this 
she would not have distracted his mind with the narration 
of the tyranny of the queen on the previous evening. 

She had dismissed the nurse immediately on her entrance, 
and seated herself by his bedside, her hand resting in his. 

“ Does he not feel for m.y wretchedness ? ” thought she, 
when she had concluded. “ He seems as if he did not heed 
what I have said.” 

She was mistaken, however, but the sands of life were 
running quickly out, though at last he gathered strength to 
speak. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


165 


“ My child, be firm and courageous, whatever you sufier ; 
I charge you with my dying breath, do not marry the king’s 
favorite^, be true to yourself, as I was not when I came to 
London. Kemember my words, the day will come, sooner or 
later, in which, impossible as it now appears, you will 
return to France. Now draw up the blinds and let the glorious 
sunlight fall upon my room, the next rising of which mine 
eyes will not behold, and then give ear to what I am about to 
say.” 

A spasm shot across her heart, as drawing aside the. heavy 
curtains of crimson satin, she suffered the soft beams of the 
October sun to enter the room, and, at the same time, 
beheld more vividly the dusky shadow over the face of the 
dying man, more painfully vivid by the clear light of day, 
than when she had first entered the darkened room. 

“ Dearest uncle, my beloved and only friend,” said she, 

‘ ‘ do you really believe that you are dying ? ” 

“ I know it, my child, now do not take on so ; now listen 
to me, I am about to ask a question. Know you that 
Father Lawson is in London ? ” 

Florence shook her head, her emotion was too great to 
allow her to speak. 

“ Well then, he is stopping at a house in Soho, the direc- 
tion of which I can give you. The servants can be trusted, 
they are all from Morvillc, and without one exception, are 
good Catholics ; the nurse must be got out of the way, 
she being a Protestant. In the dead hour of the night, my 
child. Father Lawson must come hither and systain a dying 
man with the life-giving Sacraments he so sorely needs.” 

“ I will write to the queen,” said Florence, “and shall ask 
leave to bo absent some days from the Palace. I will take 
the nurse’s place at night, and send her to bed.” 

“Ring the bell then, and tell the servant who answers it to 
send the house steward to me immediately,” 


166 


FLORENCE o’NEILL J OR, 


Florence delivered her uncle’s message and a few moments 
later, Onslow, a white-headed man, who had grown up from 
early youth in the baronet’s service, as dependents were 
wont to do in old times, made his appearance. 

The poor fellow was much moved when he approached 
the baronet. The simple, unaffected manner of the old gen- 
tleman, who was one of the best type of the school of coun- 
try squires, had attached his servants and his tenantry 
strongly to his person. He had been a good master, an 
indulgent landlord, and a faithful friend. 

“ My dear Sir Charles,” said Onslow, but he could say 
no more, grief choked his utterance. 

“ Onslow, my good fellow, give me your hand,” said the 
dying baronet ; ‘ ‘ you are witness for me that I have never 
been a hard master, nor a grasping landlord ; that I have 
ever made it a rule to allow every man as much or more 
than his due ; that I have lead a moral life, bringing shame 
and trouble to no man’s household ; that I have opened my 
purse and fed those that were hungry ; that no poor person 
was ever suffered to pass the gates of Morvillc Grange unre- 
lieved ; that I have been called a good man, and held by 
my neighbors in respect, as one who lived in good accord 
and fellowship with others ; and yet, Onslow, now that I 
come to die, I see sins where of old I saw not anything ; 
now, I see cause for repentance in many things, which in 
past days seemed of no account.” 

“ My dear, dear master, would that when I myself die, 
my conscience may reproach me with nothing more of 
weightier import than that which is on yours,” said Onslow. 

“ Sufficient for every man is his own burden, and mine 
scemeth very heavy now ; so Onslow, I warn you by our 
common faith, hasten to Soho, in Bolton Street, at the sign 
of the Blue Boar. You will find, on asking for him, and pro- 


THE SIEGE OP LIMERICK. 


167 


senting this ring, one Mr. Allen ; wait, if be be not within ; 
when you see him you will recognize mine own saintly 
chaplain. Father Lawson, forced by the perils of these dan- 
gerous times, to abide in places scarce seemly for a priest 
of our holy Church to dwell in. When you give him (he 
ring it will be a sign to him that my hour has come : tell 
him not to fail to be here as soon as the shades of night 
have fallen, for that his old friend may see the setting of 
the sun, but will never look on its rising.” 

Onslow, much moved, took the ring and hastened to exe- 
cute his errand, and a short time after, the physician, call- 
ing to sec his patient, the fears of Florence and the con- 
viction of Sir Charles that he was near his end, were con- 
firmed by him. 

The only difficulty was in the disposal of the nurse in 
such a way as not to give rise to suspicion ; it was managed 
by Florence herself. Her eyes, swollen by her tears, testi- 
fied to her affection^ and sending for the woman she said to 
her, 

I am going to take upon myself a portion of the task 
of nursing my uncle, therefore, during the early portion of 
the night alone, should your services be required, should 
you be wanted I shall have you called.” 

The woman., who had for several nights been deprived of 
her rest, was nothing loth to hear that she could have her 
place supplied, and thus procure comfortable sleep ; and as 
Florence took care to arrange that the room provided for 
her use should be quite at the other side of the house, there 
was no fear of molestation or intrusion from her. 

In the early part of the night, then, Florence, in com- 
pliance with the wishes of her dying uncle, took a few 
hours’ rest. At midnight she was again seated by his side, 
the woman having been conducted to the room destined for 


168 


IXORENCE o’iJEILL^ OR, 


her use. The door communicating with her uncle’s suite of 
apartments she ordered to be carefully locked, lest curiosity 
or any other cause should lead the nurse to leave her room 
in the night and wander to any other part of the house. 

lletween the hours of twelve and one, disguised as a 
farmer^ Father Lawson was ushered into the sick chamber. 
The metamorphosis was complete, as far as outward appear- 
ances went. He looked like some one of the stout, honest, 
and somewhat rough mannered men whose character he had 
assumed for the time being. 

After the confession of the baronet had been heard, the 
servants were summoned (none but the Protestant nurse 
went to bed that night), and the little party, kneeling 
around the bed, joined in prayer whilst the last rites of the 
Church were administered and the Bread of Life broken to 
the dying man. 

The ceremonies were over, but still Father Lawson 
lingered, wishful to see the last of the friend to whom he 
had for many years been chaplain, in the quiet solitude of 
Morville. 

The end drew very near ; the dull, glazed eye, the heavy 
death dews, the restlessness, all betokened approaching dis- 
solution. 

Present to him now are the times forever past ; ho 
rambles, and his speech is thick and incoherent ; secular 
amusement and religious persecution* are all mixed up 
together. 

“ A fine morning for the hunt, gentlemen. Sir Thomas, 
I shall come and see your pack. Hallo — to horse — bring 
out the hounds — rare sport shall we have to day — ” 

There was a pause. The eyes of the dying man are 
closed, the breath suspended ; will he speak again ? 

“Hark! hark how the knaves beat against the door. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


169 


Never mind, let them in ; Morvillo boasts a secret hiding- 
place and outlet for her priests which none have yet dis- 
covered.” 

Florence trembled and turned pale as these words fell 
upon her ear. There was no “priest’s hiding-hole” at 
Kensington should the visit of Father Lawson be known to 
any but themselves. 

Other thoughts, and holier ones, now fill the mind of the 
dying man. “ Florence, my child,” he says, “ God pro- 
tect and bless you. Nay, do not take on so much, my 
loving niece, because the old man’s life is near tho end. 
Kather be glad the aids of religion have sustained him, aids 
which many cannot have in times like these. Father Law- 
son, accept my thanks for having at your peril visited mo 
this night,” and ho slightly raised his hand so that tho 
priest might clasp it in his own. 

Then his voice grew more and more faint, but he begged 
that his servants might each press his hand, and asked their 
forgiveness if ho had ever done them wrong. 

Ho never spoke again, but remained perfectly quiet. 
Ilis lips occasionally moving, showed ho was joining in 
prayer with tho priest. 

Ho had been quite right in his assertion tho previous day 
— ho was not to see the rising of another sun. 

The grey of tho early morning had, however, dawned 
before all was over. In pity to him, Florence strove to sup- • 
press tho hysterical sobs which ever and again broke forth 
in spite of herself. She at last succeeded, and the deep 
voice of Father Lawson, reciting the prayers for a soul in its 
agony, alone interrupted the silence of the death chamber. 

A deep sigh at length broke the stillness, the cold fingers 
which had been entwined in those of the niece he so dearly 
loved relaxed their hold. They looked upon the features 
15 


170 FLORET' CB o’neill; or, 

of the dead, the spirit of Sir Charles had fled from its mortal 
tenement. 

These were the times of perseeution, when a price was set 
upon the priest who durst venture to labor in England for 
the salvation of souls. 

Florence hung for a few moments in speechless grief over 
the corpse ; then, mindful of the duties of hospitality, and 
of the peril of Father Lawson, she turned from the dead to 
the living, not forgetting either the necessity of at once dis- 
persing the servants, and arousing the nurse, who was to be 
led to believe that the baronet had died suddenly, to 
account for not requiring her assistance. 

Save ^ glass of hot spiced wine and a piece of dry bread. 
Father Lawson partook of no refreshment. He had ren- 
dered the services of his priestly ministration, and was now 
anxious to be gone. 

“ My poor Florence,” he said, at parting, “ I grieve to 
think of the dangers that beset you at the court, but bear 
up awhile ; I have powerful friends amongst the Jacobite 
nobility, and though you may not be aware of it, persons 
will be around you who take an interest in your welfare, 
and who are also connected with the exiled court. But sec, 
the morning has fairly dawned, it bids me leave you. Will 
you not return to the palace at once ? ” 

“ Not till after the interment, certainli/ not,’’' and Flor- 
. once laid a stress on those last two words ; “ he was so good 
to me. The last two relations have been snatched from me 
so suddenly I can scarce as yet realize my position. I shall 
be firm in my refusal to contract an alliance in marriage at 
the court, live only in hopes of returning to St. Germains, 
and when, a short time hence, I am able to claim the 
inheritance bequeathed to me, the persecuted of our Church 
shall have all the help it is in my power to bestow.” 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


171 


“ May God bless your good intentions, my child, and, 
guiding you safely through your troubled life at Mary’s 
court, make you ever worthy of the position in which He 
has placed you. Farewell, may we one day meet under less 
trying circumstances.” 

Thus, in the still silence of the morning, the disguised 
and persecuted priest went his way to his obscure lodgings. 
Alas, for the spirit of the times, that in secresy and sileoco 
the zealous priest was able to preserve the faith, which but 
for men like Father Lawson must absolutely have died out 
during the period when the horrible penal laws were in full 
force. 

Florence, now a ward of the crown, was not allowed to 
nurse her grief in the presence of Death. The queen sum- 
moned her to the palace, ordered her mourning, treated her 
with all imaginable kindness, and deputed one of the officers 
of the royal household to give the necessary instructions for 
the removal of the body for interment in the family vault 
of the De Greys at Morville. 

This arrangement Florence rebelled against in her heart, 
but herein the queen was perfectly right in removing her 
from a scene calculated only to nurse the depression of 
spirits to which she was gradually yielding. 

Once again was she permitted to revisit the house, and 
gaze again on the features, serene and peaceful in the slum- 
ber of the grave. The body of the deceased baronet was 
removed by night to the hearse which was to convey it to 
Morville, whither it was to bo followed to the grave by his 
devoted tenantry, dependents, and friends, but no blood 
relation. The young heiress, Florence, being his only sur- 
viving relative, was at the head of that long troop of 
mourners. 

The Grange was then left in the care of two persons, one 


J72 FLOKENCE o’nEILL ; OE, 

of whom, at the express wish of Florence, was Robert 
Onslow. 

Some three or four weeks after the death of Sir Charles 
the queen had decreed that Florence should look over the 
papers and personal matters belonging to the baronet, and 
the house and furniture — the terms of its occupation would 
then have expired — was to be delivered up to its owner. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

XETTERS rOR ST. GERMAINS. 

) siispcnse or anxiety can well exceed that of 
watching for the post, above all, when we are 
on the look-out for, perhaps, important intelli- 
gence. If this is the case in the nineteenth 
century, when postal arrangements arc conducted with 
such facility, what must the tortures of suspense have been 
such as those suffered who were situated as were the exiles 
at St. Germains. 

Weary with vainly watching for news, Mary Beatrice 
began gradually to awaken to the painful idea that she had 
forever lost her favorite. It was one trial more to add to 
the many already suffered, and a very great one she held it 
to be. 

A year has passed away, another and the last effort of 
any consequence had been made in behalf of James by the 
battle of La Hague, but the very winds of Heaven were 
against the hapless king. He had waited a month for 
favorable winds to cross over to England, and meanwhile 
the Dutch fleet, joining with that of Admiral Russell in the 
Downs, appeared on the coast of France. A Jacobite at 
heart, and a favorite of his old master, fain would Russell 




THE SIEGE OF LIMEKICK. 


173 


have avoided a collision, and if Tourville, the commander 
of the French fleet, would consent to pass quietly by with 
his squadron at night he should not be attacked. 

The bravery of Tourville, however, was too unreasonable 
to allow of his putting his own glory in the shade for the 
sake of James, and the encounter that ended in the loss of 
the French fleet sent James back in grief and sorrow to St. 
Germains, and filled with despair and mortification his 
adherents in England. 

Down-spirited, the poor king had lingered three sad 
weeks in Normandy ere he could make up his mind to 
return to St. Germains, whither ho had at last returned, 
won over by his sorrowing and anxious queen. 

At fitful and uncertain intervals only came news from 
England. In the previous year they had been prostrated 
with grief by the news of Ashton’s execution. Then when, 
after the famous Treaty of Limerick had been signed, and 
Lord Lucan came over^ to St. Germains, bringing with him 
Sir Reginald and a troop of devoted followers, a multitude 
of letters at the same time reached the hands of the king 
and queen. On a fine Summer morning, about the end of 
July, in the year 1693, after several weeks’ weary watch- 
ing, came news from London. 

The windows of the king’s favorite closet were formed in 
a large bay, and jutting boldly forward, they presented a 
fine view of the valley beneath, as also of the surrounding 
country. It was in this room that the queen had held an 
interview with the unfortunate John Ashton at the begin- 
ning of our tale. 

Down in the valley he recognizes, making his way to the 
chateau, an old sea commander of his own, a man of large 
proportions, stout, and tall, his features hard and weather- 
15* 


174 


FLORENCE o’NEILL ; OR, 


beaten, and bis hair, ■whitened by the hand of time, 
blowing about in the summer breeze. 

“Why, surely, yonder is my brave old friend and mate, 
Davy Lloyd,” ‘said the king, "watching the man beneath 
ascend with some difficulty the ascent leading to the 
chateau. “ Had I known he was at St. Germains, a carriage 
should have been sent for him. Time begins to leave its 
traces on him now; how old he looks.” 

II ow prone we arc to notice its trace on others, and for- 
get ourselves. James looked old and care-worn beyond 
what he imagined. Time and trouble had plowed deep fur- 
rows in his face. 

Heartily the king welcomed his old sea commander, and 
not long had ho been seated before he informed the king, 
with a significant glance, that he had letters from England, 
which he had promised to deliver with his own hands. 

“ I met and recognized the Earl of Lucan and Sir 
"Reginald St. John, of your Majesty’s Guards. ’Sdeath, 
how the young rascal’s eyes sparkled when I gave him a 
letter from his lady-love, the fair Mistress O’Neill. She also 
sent one for Lord Lucan ; and I must crave your Majesty’s 
pardon for giving to any one before yourself,” said Lloyd 
to the (^ueen, “but I thought I might not meet with them 
again, as my time here will be but short. Here, madam, 
is the letter,” and the old sailor presented it to the queen, 
whose eyes sparkled with delight, for she recognized the 
handwriting of her favorite Florence ; “ and here, sire, arc 
two of the greatest consequence, and you see they arc 
presented last, which ought to have been the first. Do you 
know the handwriting, sire ? ” 

Poor fond father 1 A flush of pleasure lighted up his face 
as the king recognized the handwriting on one of the letters. 
He remembered the other also_, but laid it aside till he had 
perused the first. It ran as follows ; 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


175 


December, 1691. 

I have been very desirous of some safe opportunity to make you 
a sincere and humble offer of my duty and submission, and for you 
to be assured that 1 am both truly concerned for the misfortune of 
your condition, and sensible, as I ought to be, of my own unhap- 
piness. As to what you may think I have contributed to it, if 
wishes could recall what is past, I had long since redeemed my 
fault. I am sensible it would have been a great relief to mo if I 
could have found means to have acquainted you earlier with my 
repentant thoughts, but I hope they may find the advantage of 
coming late — of being less suspected of insincerity than, perhaps, 
they would have been at any time before. 

It will be a great addition to the ease I propose to my own mind 
by this plain confession, if I am so happy as to find that it brings 
any real satisfaction to yours, and that you arc as indulgent and 
as easy to receive my humble submission as I am to make it, in a 
free, disinterested acknowledgment of my fault, for no other end 
but to deserve and receive your pardon. I liavc had a great mind 
to beg you to make one compliment for me : but fearing the expres- 
sions which w'ould be most proper for me to make use of might be, 
perhaps, the least convenient for a letter, I must content myself 
at present with hoping the bearer W'ill make a compliment for me to 
the queen. 

The king laid it aside, and took up Marlborough’s letter. 
The queen meanwhile had vanished, and was busily 
employed with the perusal of her old favorite’s epistle in 
her own cabinet. Lord Marlborough wrote, averring that 
ho could neither eat nor sleep for his remembrance of the 
crimes he had committed against his king. “ I make your 
Majesty,” he added, “ offers of unlimited service, and I 
assure you I will bring back the Princess Anne to her duty 
if I receive the least word of encouragement.” 

“I shall write to Marlborough,” said the king, laying 
his letter aside, “ that his good intentions must be proved 
by deeds rather than words.” 

At that moment there was a knock at the closet door, and 


176 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


a page introduced Lord Lucan, whose prodigious size far 
exceeded that of tho stalwart Welchman, Davy Lloyd. 

“I have had a letter that has given me pleasure, 
Lucan,” he said, showing him the epistle of the princess, as 
Lloyd was leaving thfe room, the fond, weak heart of the 
king yearning towards his younger child. “■ My daughter 
Anne, Lucan, is surely better than her sister Mary.”* 

Captain Lloyd’s hand was yet on tho handle of the door, 
when this remark attracted his attention. He paused, half 
opened it again, thrusting forward his white head, saying : 

“ I beg your Majesty to understand they are both alike 
in principle ; the one is not a whit better than the other ; a 

couple of ,” and here the rough seaman used a canine 

comparison, to which an oath was added, which we may not 
repeat in these pages. 

Poor, foolish, fond James ! A deep sigh escaped him as 
Captain Lloyd closed tho door. His words had been harsh 
and coarse, but the king knew him to be warmly devoted to 
his interests, and felt that he must bo well convinced that 
Anno was only seeking to further her own selfish views, or 
that ho would never have burst out with such uncontrollable 
indignation. 

“Well, Lucan, and what news has the captain brought 
for you,” said the king, as he threw the letter of tho prin* 
cess aside. 

“ Merely a letter from Florence, your Majesty. Poor 
child, she seems to entertain no hope of getting away from 
Mary’s Court. She has also sent a letter to St. John, 
releasing him, I believe, from the contract that existed 
between them; behold him, Sire, ho is walking on the ter- 
race beneath the window. Ho looks very lachrymose, doco 


*Macphersoh State i’apcrs. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


177 


he not, rather unlike the fine, dashing, young fellow, who 
last year ofiered me his services at Limerick. Active ser- 
vice will rout him out of his trouble most speedily, your. 
Majesty.” 

, “He will not be sufiered to remain long inactive,” 
replied the king, “but I grieve for Florence very much, 
there is little doubt, Sarsfield, but that the rich estates of 
your young kinswoman are coveted by William. His con- 
quests in Flanders are costing him dear ; he is impoverish- 
ing England to carry on his wars, and the larger the num- 
ber of the estates confiscated on the plea of rebellion, the 
better for him. My poor Lucan, how severely have you 
and many others suffered by your devotion to our cause.” 

A tear stood in the king’s eye as he spoke. The brave, 
warm-hearted Irishman beheld it ; his heart was as soft as 
that of a woman, and muttering a few words about only 
having done his duty in sacrificing his estates, and urging 
his countrymen to go to France, he turned to the window 
to conceal his emotion. For the old mansion in which he 
was born, and the green hills and dales surrounding it, 
swam before his eyes, and with the expressions of his 
royal master’s sorrow were more than he could bear. Nor 
was the scene in the open meadow beyond, where the troops 
had mustered for their daily exercise, in their dingy, hard- 
worn uniform, more cheering to the spirits, for it clearly 
manifested the scant condition of the poor king’s finances. 

A moment later the queen entered the closet followed by 
her beautiful boy, a child of some four years of age. The 
little prince, as soon as the door was opened, rushed at once 
to Lord Lucan ; his head reached not much above the knees 
of the somewhat gigantic figure of that personage. The 
boy’s large, dark eyes were fixed on his face, with an earn- 
estness such as is not often seen in childhood. Alas, the 


178 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


little prince was well accustomed to the siglit of tears, if 
you only remember what his parents suffered, and with the 
acute apprehension of an intelligent child, he at once con- 
cluded that something had occurred to make “big Lord 
Lucan,” as he used to call him, look so sad to-day. 

With dark eyes, a fair, bright complexion, an abundance 
of clustering curls of golden hair, and the rest of his fea- 
tures equally good, the little Prince of Wales deserved the 
appellation of a beautiful child. 

He was dressed in his usual attire, a frock of the royal 
Stuart tartan, with a stomacher of point lace, a cap of 
dark blue velvet, set somewhat fancifully on the top of his 
pretty head, adorned with a small plume of black and blue 
feathers. His tiny hands caught firm hold of those of 
Lucan, and his golden curls fell over that brave Irishman’s 
arm, as in childish prattle he begs him to come and see a 
beautiful pony which Monsieur the Dauphin had sent him. 

Very good, fast friends, indeed, are the child and the 
carl, though the brave Sarsfield did not live to raise a sword 
in defence of the rights of the prince he loved so dearly. 

He lifted the boy up in his arms, fondling and caressing 
him as though he were his own. In fact, the little fellow 
knew well the power he possessed over the brave and gal- 
lant Lucan, who, turning with a smile to James and his 
consort, said, laughing, for the sight of the boy had driven 
away his sadness : 

“You see your Majesties, big Lucan is fairly caught, 
and as he cannot say ‘no’ to your child, why you must 
excuse him, he is going to look at the Dauphin’s present.” 

“A word first. Lord Lucan,” said the queen. “ I have 
a long letter from my beloved Florence. I shall read it to 
the king, and then send it to yourself and Sir Reginald.” 

“A long letter at last, Sire,” she resumed as Lord Lucan 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


170 


withdrew with the boy under his eare, shall I read it 
aloud ? ” 

The king assented, and placing her chair beside that of 
the king, she began to read. 

We must here remark, however, that the date of the let- 
ter was that of the October of the previous year. Conse- 
quently it had been commenced in the form of a journal, 
which had been kept at random, for sometimes weeks or even 
months had elapsed without an entry having been made. 
The corn was now ready for the reaper, its golden sheaves 
were being gathered in. Nearly another year had passed, 
showing that the journal had been kept by irregular inter- 
vals, and as circumstances allowed, most probably with a 
view of having it at hand whenever a fortuitous chance 
might occur, through which she might transmit it to her 
friends in France. 

Without any preamble, for cogent reasons addressing no 
particular person, it began thus : 

This day I have for the last time looked on the dead face of my 
dear uncle. I have collected all his valuables and papers ; to-mor- 
row his remains will be removed to Morville for interment. How 
much would I like to go thither for awhile, and then return to my 
beloved Mrs. Whitely. (1.) 

How much would I give to know if one whom I hold dear is 
recovered of his wounds. How much to know if I am thought of 
as in the old, old days, when our troth was plighted beside my 
dying mother. 

December, ’91. 

The king is at Kensington, and has brought with him the Count 
Von Arnheim. I am persecuted on all sides. I am asked to give 
a reason why I dislike him ; he is in favor with the king (were he 
in the favor of two kings my aversion would bo the same). Ho is 
thirty years old, good looking, rich, and enamored of myself, so says 


(1.) One of the names by which Queen Mary Beatrice was desig 
nated in the writings of the Jacobites. 


180 


FLORENCE o’NEILL ; OR, 


the queen. She tells mo I refuse Lira in a spirit of obstinacy, and 
because I am still fostering attachment to an outlaw. Both the king 
and queen were much exasperated to-day, because I still continue 
1o refuse the Count, who urges his suit with a provoking perti- 
nacity when ho sees how I am opposed to it. Oh, how I wish I 
was a poor peasant girl, I should not bo thus tortured. 

January 15, 1G92. 

This afternoon I received a summons to attend the king in his 
closet; the queen was not there ; my heart beat violently. I looked 
at my face in the pier glass as I approached him. I was ghastly 
white ; my black robe a contrast to my pale face ; ray knees shook 
under me. Then I said to myself, “ there is not much of the courage 
of the O’Neills in their descendant,” and I mastered my fear a 
little, and walking slowly up the long room, I made ray obeisance 
to the king. Standing before him, I awaited his pleasure. 

Let me try and remember how his Majesty opened the attack. I 
was so surprised that I have to think before I can clearly recollect 
all that passed. 

His spare little person w'as seized with a fit of asthmatic 
coughing at the moment I reached his chair. Ilis manners 
are always more or less disgusting, so that ho did not heed at all 
the nature of his cough, whilst a young lady stood immediately 
before him till the fit was over, for I dared not move, as he made 
no sign ; neither did he sign forme to bo seated. You know ho is 
chary of speech and very brief in his replies. I was aware that I 
stood before one W'ho is dead to the generous emotions of the heart, 
and, at the same time, an imperious sovereign. I felt too that the 
queen was purposely absent. 

At last the king laid aside his handkerchief, and fixing his spark- 
ling eyes on my face, his countenance more grave even than usual, 
ho said : 

” I wish to know why you refuse to marry one who is a faithful 
friend of mine. Now, reply in three or four words.” 

” Your Majesty, I cannot marry Count Von Arnheim,” I said. 

” It is wmman’s nonsense ; you shall bo his wife before we return 
to Holland. I have said so ; it is viy wdll.” 

” But Sire, it cannot, must not be,” and silly w'oman that I am, 
tlic tears rushed to my eyes, and sobs choked my utterance. 

‘‘ Enough, I have said you shall, you understand ; now you may 
go.” 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


181 


“ But, your Majesty, I will not marry him,” said I, heedless of 
the power of the person whom I addressed. 

The king rarely got in such a passion as on this occasion. Ho 
rose from his chair, seized me roughly by the arm, asked me how 
I dared set up my will against his, and in his rage, flung his hand- 
kerchiefs on the ground. I picked them up and handed them to him ; 
he flung them on the floor again, saying : ” Do you know I have 
power to imprison you — how dare you refuse when we approve ? I 
see, I see, you want to endow the outlawed St. John with your 
estates ; they shall be confiscated first. Madam.” 

His violence brought on another fit of coughing. I again picked 
up his handkerchiefs, and humbly asked should I remain. 

“Go, Madam, go ; I have told you you shall submit,” was the 
rough reply, and I hurried to my bedroom, and when there, dear 
Mrs. Whitely, I fell on my knees and had a good long cry. 

How can I keep my troth as I wish and marry Von Arnheim? 
Then, again, you know it will not do for both contracting parties 
to be poor ; for, although I know I ought to be very rich when I 
am twenty-one, sometimes I fear whether a reason will not bo 
found why I should bo made poor if I continue obstinate in my 
refusal, as I mean to do. 

January 28th. 

The queen continues very cold and harsh, and her exasperation 
with the Princess Anne — for she persists in keeping the Marl- 
boroughs about her — makes her worse. She told mo yesterday 
that the king was fixed in his resolve; called mo an ungrateful, 
obstinate minx, and said that she had ordered my trousseau, and 
fixed the day for my marriage for the middle of next month. “I 
bid you receive the Count properly this evening,” she said ; “I 
shall bo present, and, remember, wo shall enforce obedience.” 

I scarce know how I reached my own rooms. “ This evening, 
this evening,” I kept saying to myself. I felt as if a weight 
pressed on iny heart. I called on him whom I must not name on 
this paper to come and help me, on my beloved Mr. and Mrs. 
Whitely ; and all this while, you see, I had forgotten Him who can 
help when the arm of man cannot sustain us. “ Oh, God, come to 
my aid; Oh, Lord, make haste to help me,” I cried out in the 
anguish of my heart ; in the words of the Psalmist, “ In Thee I 
have put my trust; let me never be confounded.” 

16 


182 


FLOUEXCE o’neill; oe, 

Then in a little while my passion of tears was over; and much 
time having passed, and as I was to stand behind the queen’s chair 
at the theatre that evening, I got up from my knees, for I knew 
my nTaid Avould soon come to dress me. 

I am sure I see no beauty in myself to make the Count so ardent. 
I was as white as a lily, and my eyes fearfully swollen with cry- 
ing. I assure you the white silk and pearls I wore w^ere not 
whiter than my face. 

I saw her majesty look sharply at mo when I came forward, for 
the Count, I found, was to be one of the royal party. The queen 
is a superbly majestic woman now. She looked down on me ; 
was a mind to crush me out of existence ; and W'ith a significant 
glance at Von Arnhcim, she said, in an under tone, though loud 
enough for mo to hear it : 

“ I have fixed the day of your nuptials for the fifteenth of next 
month. Count ; j’ou will* thus bo ready to return with the king to 
Holland when ho loaves England in March.” 

My persecutor, of course, presented me his arm. It was impos- 
sible for me to speak just then, there was such a throng around us, 
but I looked up in the queen’s face to see if I could move her to 
pity ; but no, the glance she levelled at me was expressive of 
anger and determination, for her lips were compressed together, as 
I have seen them when she has visited the princess with any out- 
break of anger, and as she swept in all her regal magnificence past 
me, the word ” Beware !” fell from her lips. 

Had I formed no prior attachment, I do not think I should have 
liked the Count. As it is, I feel an unconquerable aversion for the 
pertinacity W'ith which he presses his suit, and I also have a vague 
ide'a that he wooes not me, but the broad lands I inherit. 

I took my customary place behind the queen’s chair, but tears 
and grief combined made me feel ill, coupled with the weariness of 
standing for two hours. Suddenly a cold dew overspread my face, 
the lights on the stage seemed all to blend in one confused mass, 
and I remember nothing more till I found myself in a retiring room 
of the theatre, whither I had been carried. That terrible Count 
was beside me, officiously assiduous in promoting my recovery. 

I returned to the palace in his care and that of one of the queen’s 
ladies. He conducted me to my own apartments, and you may 
easily imagine how hard he tried to press his suit, backed as he 
knew himself to be by the king and queen. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


183 


At last, dearest Mrs. Whitely — for I encourage the hope that one 
day, however distant, your eyes may fall on these lines — I grew 
angry, and turning round upon him, I asked him how he could find 
it in his heart to persecute one who had no affections to bestow ? 

“Yes, that is the very thing. Madam,” he replied, with an 
insulting air and gesture. “ I have heard of your attachment to a 
rebel and an outlaw, who has dared to take up arms against their 
Majesties. This, Madam, is the real reason wdiy I am refused.” 

My hasty temper was now thoroughly roused. 

“ You insult me by such language, sir,” I exclaimed. “ I have 
no intention of marrying at present; moreover, I will never give 
my hand to a person who has pursued me as you have done.” 

Their Majesties — ” he began. 

I interrupted him at once. 

“ In this matter their Majesties have no right to control me, nor 
will I be so influenced. I again repeat' I will not he forced to 
become your wife.” 

“Madam,” he replied, “I forgive you, because you are 
evidently a young lady of high spirit, who, doubtless, grieves for 
liaving said unjust things as soon as she has uttered them ; and as 
I am quite satisfied in the fact that the king and queen can bend 
you to compliance, I can afford for the present to bo silent beneath 
your hard language.” 

“ And would you ho content with my hand unwillingly 
bestowed,” said I, with flashing eyes, and scarcely able to articu- 
late, in what I might almost term my righteous anger. 

“ Most certainly ; the affection of the at first unwilling bride 
will follow, as a matter of course, after she has become my wife. 
Farewell, Madam,” ho added, rising, “ I shall have the pleasure 
of visiting you to-morrow in the presence of the queen.” 

I knew well that all I that night suffered arose from a want of 
full and entire trust in the pow'er of Him who alone can help us, I 
forgot all the calm and peace I had experienced earlier in the day, 
when I committed this matter and my whole being into the hands 
of God. And so it happened that for some time after Yon Arnhcim 
had left me, I remained overwhelmed by the shock I had received. 
The weather w.as extremely cold, and I sat for a long time heedless 
that the fire had almost burnt itself out, and dreading even the 
coming of my maid. 

At length, feeling the necessity of exertion, I aroused myself, 


184 


FLOEENCE o’NEILL ; OR, 


and made up my mind to throw myself at the queen’s feet in the 
morning, and make a last effort to excite her pity. 

You may well imagine, dear Mrs. Whitely, that I passed an 
indifferent night. Alas, I had little to expect from the pity of 
Queen Mary. 

It was not left to me Xo put myself in her Majesty’s way, for she 
sent me a message desiring me to come to her half an hour before 
the usual time. 

Of course I well knew that this was meant for a private conver- 
sation before her ladies gathered round her. When I entered her 
closet she was working, and without raising her head, or vouch- 
safing me a single glance, she began by saying : 

“ I understood perfectly well the cause of your illness last night. 
A glance at your tearful, swollen eyes is sufficient. I have sent 
for you in order to tell you that I shall put an end to such scenes 
very quickly. Your mhrriagc will take place a fortnight earlier 
than I had intended. Instead of the middle of next month, it shall 
be solemnized the end of this.” 

I cast myself at the queen’s feet, imploring her not to compel me 
to disobey her commands, by forcing on my marriage with the 
Count. 

“Disobey!” exclaimed her Majesty, in a tone of unqualified 
contempt. “ I would advise you to think over the penalty of dis- 
obedience to your sovereign’s will. It will bo imprisonment in 
the Tower. Withdraw, and when you next enter my presence let 
it be without tears.” 

Wandering away again from Thee, O God, by the sinfulness of 
my nature ; leaning for help upon an arm of flesh, a reed that 
bendetli beneath every wind. Oh, forgive mo, my Almighty 
Father, and teach me to see that from Thee alono true help, in tho 
hour of direst need, can come. 

Strength was given to me ; I obeyed the queen’s behest, and 
Wreathed my face with smiles when next I entered her presence. 

But let mo not forget in this Journal to allude to one to whom I 
owe this looking up to God, to whom I thus owe more than tongue 
can express. I must premise by telling you she is but an humble 
waiting-woman appointed by the queen as my especial attendant. 
On that night, after my swoon, when I was so graciously molested 
by tho addresses of tho Count, I had remained for some time after 
his departure, cold and tearful, when Grace Wilmot entered the 
room. 


THE SIEGE OF EIMERICK. 


185 


A strange woman I had often thought her. Plain exceedingly 
she was ; her complexion was swarthy, with large features, ill- 
formed ; her eyes were fine, dark, and expressive — they redeemed, 
in some degree, the plainness of her face. She was tall, too, and 
her figure as beautiful as her features were the reverse. 

She was a woman of, perhaps, forty years of age, singularly 
reticent, sparing in her speech as the king himself, but often very 
sorrowful and abstracted withal, so that I often felt Grace Wilmot 
had a story of her own, if she chose to tell it. 

On the evening to which I have alluded, when she entered my 
chamber she paused, and an expression of deep sympathy seemed 
to pass over her hard features. She was about to speak, but as 
suddenly checked herself, and was, as usual, the humble, unob- 
trusive waiting-w’oman. Even the sympathy of poor Grace was 
much to me where all around me seemed as if their hearts were of 
adamant. I chanced to look in her face ’as she -was helping to 
divest me of my dress ; our eyes met, in mine the tears stilt 
trembled ; heart opened to heart ; the rich heiress was no more 
remembered ; the woman looked upon the woman, differing only 
from each other by their social positions ; the barriers raised by 
the conventionalities of life were for the time thrown down, and 
before I well knew what I was about, my head rested on the bosom, 
of Grace, and her warm tears were falling in a plenteous shower on 
my brow. 

“ Dear young lady, dear child, how I have wished to speak, and 
dared not by reason of the humbleness of my position,” she said : 
“ but now, blessed be God and his Virgin Mother, the >vell-springs 
of sympathy are open; for, oh, my lamb, it is a terrible thing to 
suffer, and have none to cheer us with a consoling word.” 

I recovered somewhat, and raised my head from her bosom. 

” My good Grace,” I said, in much bewilderment, “ you have 
spoken words none dare to utter here. Are you of the proscribed 
faith of Eome 7 ” 

” Even so. Madam, and greatly have I drank of the chalice of 
human suffering ; but I will show you whence I draw hope and 
consolation. But Grace Wilmot, the handmaid of a lady of rank 
such as yours, still presumes to tell her mistress how to gather 
strength at the same fount, in absence of the Sacraments now so 
long denied us. From this. Madam, I have drawn my strength.” 

She drew from her pocket two small and well worn volumes. 


I 


186 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL ; OE, 

The one was a copy of the Four Gospels, the other an edition of 
that all but inspired book, The Imitation of Christ. 

She turned over its pages, and pointed to one chapter, headed : 
‘ De I’amour de Jesus sur toutes choses.” 

It was a French copy of A Kempis, by which I understood my 
maid to be an educated woman. 

“ That one chapter. Madam,” said she, ” is often on my lips, 
and I hope ever in my heart. At a time of grievous suftering an 
aged priest bid me study it well. Since then I have realized more 
clearly the fact contained therein, that one must ‘ not trust nor rely 
on a windy reed for all flesh is grass, and all the glory thereof shall 
fade like the flower of the grass. Have an implicit confidence in 
God, Madam. He will even work miracles rather than abandon 
those who put their trust in Him.” 

“But, my good Grace,” said I, wanting, verily, the simple, 
unquestioning faith of my handmaiden, whom I was fast learning 
to regard with respect, ” this marriage is resolved on by those who 
have me in their power ; imprisonment and the confiscation of my 
property will be the alternative.” 

Grace sorrowfully shook her head, seeing that, as yet, I had so 
mrich to learn before I could get in the right way, and her plain 
countenance seemed for the time marvellously beautiful by reason 
of the superhuman expression by which it was animated, as she 
said, with her splendid eyes lifted up to heaven : 

“ There is a King above all earthly kings, before whom the 
greatest of earthly monarchs is but as the dust of the earth. Bear 
up. Madam, this marriage will not, shall not be.” 

I felt touched, and in spite of myself it seemed as if the spirit of 
prophecy which animated those of old had descended on this extra* 
ordinary being, in whom, though about my person ever since I had 
como to the palace, I had discerned nothing beyond the most 
rigorous punctuality in the discharge of her duties ; respect, with- 
out the slightest tinge of subserviency ; humility, without any 
approach to abjection, and so careful a performance of her employ* 
ments that it would have been impossible for tho most exacting 
person to discover neglect. If Grace was required at a certain timcj 
there she was ; if sho was wanted to execute a certain task, it was 
done without delay. In short, I recognized in the exact fidelity 
of my handmaiden that which, until now, I had not observed or 
noticed in tho light in which I now regarded them. She had all 


THE SIEGE OE LIMEEICK. 


187 


the qualities of one who studies to embody into her life the holy 
maxims of the Gospel, reduced to that practical performance which 
lead to perfection and which constitute sanctity. 

All proud reserve between Grace and myself was now crushed 
beneath my feet. I had yearned for sympathy ever since the day 
my feet had first crossed the threshold of the queen’s court. I now 
possessed it. I had met a kindred mind, in a quarter in which one 
would least have expected to find it. Moreover, that mind was 
intelligent and cultivated ; above all else, it was educated in the 
highest sense of the word, in what Father Lawson termed the 
science of the saints, and had held forward to mo as the most useful 
knowledge first to be gained, without which all else was vain and 
hurtful. 

Wo knelt together in prayer, above all else we prayed for 
resignation to the inevitable. Then when I had lain down, Grace, 
as usual, came to draw around my bed the heavy, satin curtains, 
and wished me her customary “good-night.’’ 

Impelled by a sudden impulse, I threw aside the curtain and 
called her back. I arose, and drawing her reluctant face to mine, 
I kissed her brow, saying : 

“ Grace, dear Grace, be my friend.’’ 

She bent down and kissed the hand which still rested on the cur- 
*tain. Her humility humbled me, and her answer was wortliy of 
herself. 

“ Grace, Madam, feels honored by the friendship of her mistress, 
and it shall not causo her to forget the lowliness of her own 
position.” 

I laid my head upon the pillow resigned, I might almost say 
happy, such is the influence of a virtuous example. 

I resolved before many days were over to ask Grace to tell me 
the story of her life. Outwardly there was no change in our 
respective positions. We each seemed, without saying a word 
about the matter, instinctively to understand that there must be no 
alteration. Indeed, when together, but very little passed between 
us, and yet her influence boro upon every word and action of my 
present life. 

The queen must liaVe observed the change, and doubtless attri- 
buted it to the feaf of her threat of incarceration, and acting upon 
the change, gave mo to understand that my marriage would not 
take place till the time she had first stated, and would bo solemn- 


188 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


ized in the Chapel at Windsor Castle, the king intending to recniit 
his health in the country for a few weeks before his visit to Hol- 
land. Of course the Count’s visits were frequent, and his odious 
attentions became daily more and more obtrusive. He naturally 
gave himself more latitude on account of the passiveness with 
which I received them. 

January 27th, 1692. 

Last night I was more particularly molested by the Count than 
has hitherto been the case. I entered my own chamber with the 
old weary feeling of depression at my heart. Perhaps it was 
increased by the terror I felt when the queen described to me the 
bridal robe she had ordered to bo sent to Windsor for my wedding 
day. 

Of course, Graco observed my languid look, enforced by spirits 
out of tone. It is only at times like these that she steps, as it 
were, prominently forward to bear me up, as a mother extends her 
hand to save her child from falling when making its first steps. 

“ Madam, you arc forgetting the lesson you have been trying to 
learn; that is why you arc sorrowful to-night,” said she, as she 
unfastenod the bandeau of pearls which bound back my hair. 

” My bridal dress is ordered, Grace ; we leave for Windsor early 
in the week,” I said, half vexed just now, that there had been no 
look of sympathy in the expression of those hard, grim features of • 
hers. 

‘‘ Well, Madam, and what then ? ” 

And what then,” said I, reiterating her words. “ Do you for- 
get that the queen means this for the beginning of the end ? ” 

There was displeasure in the tones of my voice ; I knew it, I had 
spoken half in anger. 

“ Only in so far as God wills to let His creatures have their way 
for some inscrutab’c purpose of His own ; if so, vain is your rebel- 
lion to His will. I have told you you have nothing to do but to 
pray, and be patient and resigned, leaning on God alone. Madam, 
you have but very little faith.’ ’ 

The proud spirit within me was chafing as I sat beneath the 
hands of Grace, at the plainness of her Words, conveying, as they 
did, a sharp rebuke. I changed color I knew, for I felt the warm 
blood tingling my cheeks, but I held my peace. She saw the 
flushed temples, too, but spoke no word. I inwardly admired her 
courage. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEKICK. 


189 


Dear Mrs. Whitely was present to my remembrance. When 
had I ever heard her murmur? I have no doubt Grace knows the 
amount of influence she now exercises over me ; for my good she 
uses it unsparingly. Perfect passiveness and resignation, these 
are the weapons she would have me use ; nothing short of this con- 
tents her. 

I made an exertion to shake off my depression during her tem- 
porary absence on some little duty for me. When she returned I 
was in better spirits. 

“ Grace,” I said, “ I am going to ask a favor of you.” 

” I will do whatever you wish. Madam.” 

” I want you to tell me the story of your life.” 

A painful expression flitted across her hard, rugged features, 
tears filled her eyes, she made me no reply. 

” Does my request give you pain, Grace ? I long to know how 
it is you aro hero attending upon me, filling so humble a position ; 
how you became acquainted with my dear dead uncle’s friend. 
Father Lawson, and — in fact, I want to know all about you, 
Grace.” 

” I cannot refuse you any request. Madam ; it is my duty to 
obey you.” 

I felt annoyed, and answered : 

” But I do not want you to make a duty of what I ask as a favor, 
Grace ; simply forget that I ever asked the question.” 

‘‘No, Madam ; the lady who has sufficient virtue to listen to the 
admonitions of her servant, and allow her to become her monitress, 
surely should not find her inferior too proud to narrate her painful 
story.” 

‘‘ I do not attend the queen to-night,” I replied ; ‘‘ we have sev- 
eral hours before us ; be seated, Grace.” 

She pushed away the chair opposite to my own, which 1 had 
motioned for her to use, and placing an ottoman at my feet, seated 
herself thereon. Tlius her face was partly in the shadow, still the 
fire-light revealed to me that she was moved by some strong emo- 
tion ; her usually pale countenance was flushed, and I observed 
tears trickle slowly down her cheeks. 


190 


FLOEENCE o’NEILL J OE, 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 



GRACE WIL mot’s STORY. 

WAS the only and beloved child of a rich citizen ; 
he was a wealthy goldsmith of Cheapwde, and liis 
name was Edward Mayfield. Unfortunately for my 
future welfare, my mother died when I was but 
fourteen years of age. 

Up to that time, I had been carefully and religiously brought 
up in the tenets of our proscribed faith. 

Personally, I had no reason to be proud. As I advanced towards 
womanhood, I saw that my glass reflected only the face of a girl, 
plain even to ugliness, with large, hard features, and a swarthy 
complexion. 

I had soon sense enough to discover, when amongst the young 
beauties of my sex and age, as years passed on, that the more 
plainly I dressed the better, so far as my personal appearance was 
concerned. I chose only dark colors, and except a costly gold 
chain which my dear father presented me with on my sixteenth 
birthday, I scrupulously abstained from wearing any ornament 
beyond, perhaps, the occasional use of a ring. 

Jewels I might have had in abundance ; the costliest gauds of 
fashion might have been mine in profusion ; satins, and velvets, 
and laces, and exquisite scents, I abjured them all. There was an 
inordinate pride in my studied simplicity. I saw that I was plain 
even to ugliness, and at last Edward Mayfield’s only daughter was 
pronounced a devotee, because she never dressed but in sombre 
garments, and ordered them to be made with extreme simplicity. 

Sometimes that inward voice which speaks interiorly to all of 
us, seemed as though calling mo from a world for which I was 
scarcely fitted, to bury myself in the retirement of a religious life ; 
well would it have been for me had I followed the call. 

I stifled it, saying to myself : “ My father is growing aged ; for 
my sake, and in order to endow mo with all his wealth, he has 
never contracted a second marriage. When he dies, I will leave 
the world ; alas, an earthly love soon filled my heart. I felt 
within mo an insatiable thirst for knowledge ; my dear father 
helped mo to gratify it at any cost. I devoted myself to the study 




Tllli SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


191 


of Latin and French. I made myself mistress of the best authors 
of our own country. I played well on the guitar, and filled up my 
lime with various ornamental works. 

Hero Grace for a few moments paused, and I expressed my aston^ 
ishment that a gentlewoman, highly educated, should fill the posi- 
tion she occupied. 

“ You will not be surprised,” she said, “ when you have heard 
my story to the end.” 

At length she continued : 

Mixing but little with others of my sex, more from an indomi- 
(able vanity on account of my want of beauty than for any other 
cause, I reached my twenty-fourth year, about the time that all 
London was busy with preparations for the marriage of the present 
queen with the Prince of Orange. 

One evening I was seated with my dear father, when the arrival 
of a gentleman from the palace Avas notified. His errand was to 
consult my father about some jewels which the king intended to 
give as a wedding present to his niece. Charles Wilmot, for such 
was the name of the messenger, was shown into the room where I 
was seated ; the conversation betwixt my father and himself was 
a long one. He Avas offered refreshments, of Avhich he partook, 
and departed shortly afterwards, promising to call again the next 
eA’ening. 

He came about the same hour, and brought the order from the 
king for a set of jewels composed of pearls and diamonds. 

On this evening he conversed much Avith myself. He looked 
over my books, spoke of his tastes as similar to my own, and fas- 
cinated mo Avith his witty and animated conA'orsation. 

That visit AA-as the prelude to many others ; at last, Ave read, and 
sang, and played together, and I had arrived at that point at Avhich 
a dead vacuum seems to take place Avhen the missing friend is 
absent. 

At length, from being merely a visitor in the eA’euing, Avhen my 
lather and myself shared one common apartment, Wilmot not 
unfrequently called Avhon I AA-as alone in the morning ; frequently, 
the pretext for these A-isits Avould bo to bring me a ncAv book or a 
piece of music. 

Gradually the attachment sprung up in my heart Avhicli se.aled 
my future life Avith misery. 

He made me an offer of marriage What did I care for his pov- 


192 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


erty ? I knew I should have money, and I was told he was a spend- 
thrift, a gambler. No matter, I could reform him, and for the first 
time in my life, when he asked mo in marriage and was refused, I 
had words with my father. 

I have told you. Madam, that I made a point of never entering 
into company. Alas for me, I overcame my reluctance ; female 
vanity even whispered to me, that as my hand was sought with 
such pertinacity, I was, perhaps, less plain than I had considered 
myself to me. 

During the Christmas festivities of that year, there was to be a 
largo gathering at the house of J ohn Golding, a rich citizen. I had 
fancied his daughter Alice was my friend ; she was one of the 
very few of my own sex with whom I had been on terms of intimacy. 

On the night in question, I was standing apart from the gay 
throng of young people talking with Wilmot, when turning faint, 
he left me to fetch a glass of water. I had drawn aside, and had 
thrown myself on a couch in a small ante-room opening out of that 
which I had left, when I heard the murmur of voices of persons 
evidently standing by the spot I had vacated. 

It is true, Elinor, quite true; he has proposed to that ugly 
woman Grace, and they are going to be married.” 

The voice was that of my friend Alice. I know not why I 
should have wished to hear more that was painful, for a deathly 
feeling had seized on my heart. I lay perfectly still, anxious to 
hear the reply. 

“ Grace, Mayfield going to be married, I do not believe it,” 
ejaculated another person in a tone of astonishment. 

‘‘ Yes Elinor, and Grace Mayfield has made me the most unhappy 
of women. Wilmot’s attentions to mo before he met her, have 
made mo the talk of the whole city, but / am not an heiress,” 
and the words fell with great bitterness from the lips of Alice, 
” but one of a largo family. No one, however, can imagine for a 
moment, that Grace, ugly as she is, is married for anything but 
her father’s money. She must be one of the vainest of women if 
she fancies, for a moment, that she is married for love of herself.” 

Scalding tears of wounded pride and indignation fell from my 
eyes. At that moment I heard the voice of Wilmot, my fair ene- 
mies addressed him. I heard him say, ” Miss Mayfield has been 
taken ill and has gone to the ante-room, while I went to fetch her 
some wine and water.” ' 


TIIK SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


193 


Of course, they well know I had overheard their conversation, 
and had the good sense rather to bo condemned for unkind- 
ness by him, than to insult mo by following him into tho ante- 
room. 

I made my adieus early. I was ill ; anything, in short, to get 
home. Why was I made so ugly, asked I, in the bitterness of my 
soul, for the barbed arrow had entered very deeply. I would not 
hear of Wilmot accompanying me ; ho saw me safe in my chair, 
and I cried the whole way homo. 

Wilmot never came again after the quarrel with my father, well 
would it have been for mo had I never seen him after that night. 

Tho old, old happy days had forever fled ; my books had lost their 
charm ; my music its melody ; my father his love ; rather ought I 
not to say, I had lost my love for him. 

On« one of these days. Father Lawson, an old friend of my 
father’s, called at the house in Cheapsido. He was vested as a 
clergyman ‘of tho Church of England as a disguise. 

Poor hither, he opened his whole heart to his early friend. At 
length I was summoned ; my father had gone to his shop ; I found 
tho priest alone. 

“Grace, my child,” he said, “your father is unhappy, it is in 
your power to restore peace to his heart and home.” 

“ How ' ” said I, “ has he complained that I have robbed him 
of it? ” 

“ Listen to me, Grace.” Priest though he was, I yielded but a 
sullen compliance. “ Yoxyoiur sake, to make you, child as you were 
when your mother died, the entire mistress of his home, your 
doting father remained a widower ; for you, to leave you the heiress 
of his wealth. He put no woman in your dead mother’s place ; 
he does not wish to forbid you to marry subject to his better sense 
and experience, he only forbids you to marry this man Wilmot. 
Your old father loves you, Grace, and knows that man unworthy 
of your love, and that he seeks you only for what you will inherit. 
Tell me child, you will do your father’s will.” 

Hero Grace paused, and covered her face with her hands ; I saw 
the tears trickle through her fingers. She then continued: I ex- 
claimed with bitterness of tone and manner : 

“Oh yes, I see and understand it all. Edward Mayfield’s 
daughter is so ugly, so repulsively ugly, that she has no single 
attraction beyond that of her father’s money bags.” 

17 


194 


FLOKENCE O’NEILL; OE, 


“You shock me, child,” said the priest ; “God made you what you 
are, thank Him that He made you not blind and deformed ; thank 
Him that He gave you fine Inental powers, a plenteous home, a 
loving father how dare you hurl the gifts of your Creator in His 
face?” 

For a moment I was awed, and I burst into tears. 

The good Father fancied my heart was touched ; ah no, it had to 
be purified in the furnace of long years of tribulation and suffer- 
ing, ere that heart of adamant was softened. 

“ You will break off this match, Grace ? ” 

“ No, I will not break it off; my father is unjust and cruel ; I 
will marry Charles Wilmot,” 

Father Lawson rose from his seat, 

“ And you will live to rue the day you lay your hand in his. 
Misguided girl, your father loves you ; you are breaking his heart ; 
it is because be loves you with a matchless love, that he forbids 
this union.” 

“ Then is he selfish,” I dared to say, “ and he w’ould keep mo 
ever with him, forgetting that the old have to die, the young to 
live.” 

Ah, shall I ever forget that day. Father Lawson drew aside for 
a moment, too shocked to spealc. I buried my face in my hands, 
but I heard him say ; 

“ Oh my God, just and merciful, why is it that parental love 
flows downwards with so strong a current, and oftentimes returns 
in so thin a stream ; visit thou this soul with suffering in thy mercy. 
Lord, purify it in the furnace of tribulation, so that thou call it 
back to thee at last.” 

He turned to leave the room ; I called him back, awed by the words 
he had uttered ; but no, what more could he do ? He left me to inj'- 
self and went to seek my injured father. To mo, Wilmot only 
showed the fair side of his character ; if he spoke of my dear father 
it was not with contempt or anger, but rather with a feigned for- 
bearance. 

He met me the evening after my interview with Father Lawson, 
asked me if it was in vain to hope for my father’s permission to 
marry, and on my replying in the affirmative, suggested marriage 
in spite of his refusal. 

In an evil hour I acceded to his wish. There was a small annual 
income to which I had succeeded in right of my deceased mother, 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


105 


of which my father could not deprive me. We agreed to lend to 
time to heal the breach that was sure to ensue, and bo married at 
once. 

I packed up the fine trinkets my dear father had, from time to 
time, forced on my acceptance, together with my wearing apparel, 
and sent it away privately the night before T left my home. 

My father scarcely spoke to me that memorable evening ; he was 
ill and care-worn ; he was in delicate health, and I felt a pang as I 
stole a glance at him when in the act of handing him a silver cup 
containing his evening draught of hot spiced wine. 

Tears stood in his eyes ; they looked dim and bloodshot, and his 
hand trembled as he took the cup from mine, as if he had the 
palsy. 

“ Read to me from some good book, Grace, before you go to bed,” 
he said, speaking as he used to do before we quarrelled. “Ah 
yes, here is my favorite, The Following of Christ ; let it be that 
chapter — ‘ True comfurt is to bo sought in God alone.’ ” 

I did as he desired, and read on till I came to the verso: “All 
human comfort is vain and short.” He repeated these words after 
me twice, as though he pondered over them. 

I had constituted all his human comfort. I did not think of it 
at the time, but later those words remained indelibly engraved on 
my memory. 

“ God bless you, my child,” he said, as I pressed my lips to his 
forehead, and drawing down my face to his he kissed me long and 
passionately. 

Had he a presage of what was about to take place, or a fore- 
shadowing of personal misfortune, to bo brought on by the cruelty 
of his own child 7 

Fond, indulgent, betrayed father! 

I had left tho house before the servants were down in tho 
morning. 

An hour later 1 was the wife of Charles Wilmot. 

After we were married we went to Soho, where we engaged a 
lodging commensurate with our present position, till, as ho jest- 
ingly remarked, 

" Your father shall have come to his senses.” 

These words -were the first which annoyed me; it was not so 
much the words themselves as tho tone and manner in which they 
were uttered. 


196 FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 

The following morning I wrote to my father petitioning for his 
forgiveness. 

I had no reply. 

Weeks passed on and lengthened into months. I had become a 
mother. Again and again I wrote ; no answer ever came. 

I had long become used to cruel insult from the lips of my hus- 
band. At first I rebelled, and repaid insult with insult, scorn 
with scorn. “ Fool,” he would oftentimes say, ‘‘to fancy such a 
gorilla-like face was acceptable except for money.” The staff of 
well-paid servants in my father’s home had prevented the neces- 
sity of household duties on my part. Thus I was ignorant of many 
things which I should have known had my mother lived. This 
was a source of bitter invective on my husband’s part. I quickly 
found that I must learn many things of which I was ignorant, and 
moreover, that I must work hard, and save, and economize, that he 
might spend, and gamble, and drink. I had united myself to one 
who added the grossest brutality to his other vices. When the 
birth of my first child occurred, it brought tlio expenses 
incidental to my situation, detei'iorating from the comforts I had 
managed to procure him. My pretty babe was but two months 
old — pretty as its -wretched mother -was the reverse — -when I 
received the greatest indignity a man can inflict on a woman, a 
heavy blow on the face. 

‘‘ That blow cannot well make your face darker than nature has 
made it,” he said. My eyes filled with water, my old spirit had 
died out, I said not a -word. _I was beginning to see that I was 
about to pass through the ordeal of tribulation Father Lawson had 
spoken of. 

A few days later I passed down Cheapside in a sedan chair. I 
had not dared to seek my father’s face from the time of my shame- 
ful flight. I drew aside the curtain of the chair to look ag.ain at 
the old house. It was shut up ; the shop was closed, the business 
then had not been sold. 

A sickening dread seized on my heart. My father, was he dead ? 
Ah, my God, grant that I may see him once again. 

I ordered the men to enquire of the neighbors if Mr. Mayfield 
were yet alive, and if so, if they could tell where he lived. 

lie had suddenly vacated the house ; they believed he had 
retired to Ilighgate with one servant, who -u as to keep house for 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


197 


him. lie had 'become imbecile, the neighbors said, after his 
daughter left him. 

I hurried to the village of Ilighgate, and from enquiries I made 
I ascertained that my dear father rented a small house, insignificant 
for a man of his ample means, the direction of which I obtained. 
The cottage stood a little way back from the high road ; a trimly 
kept garden, gaily adorned with flowers, stretched in front of the 
house. 

I knocked at the door, predetermined to trust no longer to let- 
ters. It was answered by a middle-aged woman, who had been 
cook in my father’s house at the time of my marriage. 

She started when she beheld me. “Mrs. Wilmot!” she ex- 
claimed, with an accent of surprise. 

“ IIow is my father, Deborah?” I s.aid ; “I must see him at 
once.” 

“It is impossible, ma’am; the sight of you would make him 
worse than he already is.” 

“Woman, stand aside,” I exclaimed; and pushing past her, 1 
entered the parlor. What a sight met my eyes ' My beloved 
father, attenuated, worn almost to a shadow, was seated on a 
couch, talking incoherently to himself. 

“ Father, father,” I said, “ do you not know mo ; I am Grace, 
your daughter Grace.” 

“Grace, Grace,” ho repeated; “yes, I had a daughter of that 
name once, long years ago ; but she died, and then I was left all 
alone.” 

“ Do you not know me, fatlier? ” I said, and I kissed the thin, 
shrivelled hand ; .and then, bending down my head, I laid his hand 
upon it. Alas ! alas ! he was not conscious of the act. 

Then ho rambled on again, but of me he took no heed. It was 
another phase in the punishment I so well deserved. What should 
I do was then the question. To le.ave the house was madness. 
Deborah looked daggers at me, .and I involunt.arily trembled at 
he<aring the voice of a man below stairs. 

I had noticed, too, a wedding ring on her finger, and nothing 
doubted but that the sudden disap pe.aranco of my father from the 
city was owing to the m.achinations of this w'oman. 

I was standing at the window, and seeing a boy asking an alms, 
I beckoned liim to me. 

117 * 


198 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


I showed him half a crown. “ Will you earn this? ” I said. 
Ilis ej es sparkled with delight. 

I tore out a leaf from my pocket-hook, and scrawled in pencil 
these words : 

“ Come to mo directly ; I am with my father ; for pity’s sake do 
not delay.” 

I gave the hoy a shilling, told him to seek the address written 
on the card, and to bring tlie gentleman back with him, when I 
Would give him eighteen pence more. 

I then sat down as patiently as might bo to await his arriv.al, 
over and again trying to awaken in my father’s darkened mind 
some memory of the past. A signal failure attended my exertions. 

At length I sang the first stanza of a song which had been a 
favorite of his in the dear old times. 

He started, pressed his forehead with his hand, and exclaimed : 

“Sing it again; my dead daughter, Grace, used to sing that 
song.” 

“ I am Grace,” I said. “ Now bless me, father, I have come 
back to live with you and take care of you.” Alas ! alas ! his last 
blessing was bestowed on mo the night before I left him to the 
mercy of hirelings. And why should I speak thus; were they 
more merciless than his own child 1 

I drove back my tears bocairso I found it pleased him to hear mo 
sing. One after another I sang all the old songs which I knew ho 
had liked the best. 

“ Stay with me,” he said ; “ do not go away again, I like to hear 
you sing,” and ho put up his dear aged face and kissed me, and I 
felt wondrously happy, though he knew not I was his own Grace. 

And so we sat hand in hand, and I sang the time awaj', I never 
thinking of the woman Deborah, but looking for my husband, 
because I should not fear confronting her when he was with me. 

I saw a man leave the house, and then return with a coach, into 
which many parcels and boxes were placed, and the man getting 
in, the coach drove away. 

I had my suspicions, and as I sat by the window I marked down 
tho number of the coach. 

At last I saw my husband and the boy hasten up the garden. I 
flew to tho door and admitted him, detaining the boy till I should 
see if we wanted him. 

To my infinite pain, my husband looked coolly at my dear fathen 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


199 


“ Is tills tlic end of liis wealth ? ” lie said, with a contemptuous 
glance round the room, adding, “ a clear case of lunacy that, I 
should imagine.” 

God forgive me, how I did hate him just then. 

I arose and closed the door. 

“ Deborah, the former cook, is here,” I said ; “ she is now mar- 
ried. The house in the city is closed. Do you not see some vil- 
lainy has been practiced. It is our business to look info the state 
of my father’s property, to enquire if his valuable stock was sold 
before he left the city. 

The wretch whom I addressed at first looked at me with lack- 
lustre eyes. Pie was generally under the influence of liquor, and 
either half stupid or in a state of semi-intoxication. 

After a short time he recovered sufficiently to resolve on calling 
up the woman. We rung the bell three times ; there was no 
answer. We went down stairs, above, all over the house. We 
were the sole inmates, and the open drawers and boxes showed 
they had been rifled of their contents. We then discovered that 
there was^a back entrance to the house, by which the woman 
Deborah had evidently decamped. 

My husband sent the boy to Soho with a letter to our landlord, 
bidding him bring to Highgate the servant and baby, and he him- 
self went to the nearest magistrate, laid the case before him, and 
gave the number of the hackney coach, so that some of the prop- 
erty might be traced. 

I made a comfortable meal for my beloved fiither. It was sweet 
to serve him, though ho did not know me. Then while he partook 
of it I examined the house. I recognized many well-remembered 
anticles, though the best had disappeared. There was a good stock 
of linen, a small quantity of silver, but none of the fine old silver 
services. I then put him to bed in a room evidently intended for 
his use. He followed me about docile and submissive as a child. 
I sang to him meanwhile. It was the happiest moment I had 
known since I had left him when, for the second time, he drew mo 
to him and kissed me. 

I moved about his room after he was in bed. I heard him speak, 
and turning round, I saw his hands joined. I listened; he was 
saying the Our Prather, but not correctly. Then he made a recom- 
mendation of himself to God — this he repeated many times ; prayed 


200 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


for Lis dead wife and child, and awakening me to the sinful past, 
he repeated the words I had last read to him : 

“All human comfort is vain and short.” 

At last my husband returned, and a little while later the servant 
and child. The officials of justice were on the track of Deborah. 

The result of their enquiries ended in the recovery of many 
valuable articles and their committal to prison. My father, it 
appeared, had never recovered the effect of my guilty flight, and 
had very shortly fallen into a state in which he was irresponsible 
for his actions. Thus he was easily the tool of this artful woman. 
They , induced him to convert much of his costly stock into cash, 
of which, between fast living and what they plundered him of, the 
whole amount had gone; all that remained being a couple of 
houses ho had purchased years since, one of which, my early home, 
was now unlet. 

Insult and wrong were daily heaped on my head by my husband, 
who had always counted, sooner or later, on my winning my 
fiither’s forgiveness and obtaining a handsome property. To 
obtain permission to keep my beloved imbecile parent near me, I 
allowed him to sell the home I have spoken of, but the term of 
peace effected by yielding to his brutality was of short duration. 
In all I suffered I recognized the hand of retributive justice, and 
considere'd myself as one undergoing a term of penance. I felt tlmt 
if those who are righteous bear their cross without murmuring, 
how much more was it incumbent on me to do so. 

It was at last with a kind of melancholy pleasure that I heard 
my dear father speak of and mourn for mo as one dead. Far better 
ho should have entertained that idea than the correct one. 

I knew my old friend, Ffither Lawson, was often in London, and 
I sent him my address, at a time when I knew my husband (a Pro* 
testant in faith) would be absent. 

I longed to let him see that the days of purification were passing 
over my head. 

Of course, my poor father retained no recollection of him. I saw 
his eyes fill with tears when I led him in. I told him my whole 
story, the kind of liusband the man had made whom I had chosen 
to marry in spito of the prayers and wishes of my best friends. I 
told him how my father’s wealth had vanished like chaff before the 
wind ; how my pretty babe was pining away before my face ; how 
I was abused, ill-treated, struck. I laid my hands on that of him 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


201 


who had loved mo with such matchless love, my father, and I said, 
“ In singing to him and soothing him is my sweetest consolation; 
my greatest fear lest my tyrant husband should separate me from 
him ; ” adding, “ think you, father, I am redeeming the past ? I 
have schooled myself to the strictest patience ; I have learned to 
bo reviled and not revile again, to work "for Mm to reap, to be 
silent under his abuse, to regard all that happens to me as the 
penalty of sin and foil)’’, to consider that my future life must be a 
cross borne in the spirit of expiation.” 

‘‘The days have, indeed, come,” he said, “of your earthly 
purification. Continue thus to atone for the past, which you can- 
not now recall.” He then drew from his pocket that French copy 
of the Imitation of Christ which I showed j’ou, and turning down 
the chapter headed, “ The Love of Jesus above all things,” told 
mo to make that chapter my daily study. 

My baby died ; a little girl was born to me ; it faded away and 
died, too, when it was but a few months old. How pitiful a sight 
it W'as to witness the love cf my dear father for that child, whom 
he would call by no other name than Grace. 

My grief was very great at first after consigning my little ones 
to the grave. At last a dull apathy stole over me, and I finally 
rejoiced that the sinless ones had been gathered home by their 
Heavenly Father’s mercy before their own earthly father coUld 
teach them to sin. 

At last the day of release came, but not before my husband had 
well nigh stripped our house of every comfort — I may almost add, 
of every necessary. 

His brutality had become unbounded on account of my constant 
refusal to commit my poor father to an asylum. He was harmless, 
quiet, and docile ; if he was now poor it was my work, and what 
was still left was his. I resisted every endeavor to part me from 
him. 

At last my husband sickened with the small-pox. I nursed 
him carefully and showed him every attention possible. The 
crisis arrived, and the jdiysician declared there was no hopes of 
recovery. 

Ho could not see. The violence of the disorder had deprived 
him of his sight some days before his death. I strove to awaken 
him to repentance, but his heart was callous ; he died and made no 
sign. 


202 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


My old father and myself were thus alone in the desolate house 
at Highgate, but the shadow of death still lingered hy my hearth. 
Its touch fell very gently on the only creature who attached me to 
the world. 

It was a pleasant day in Spring. I had drawn an easy chair 
under the porch in the back garden, and with my work in my hand 
(for I now had not enough to live upon save by adding to our little 
income, by embroidering gay scarfs and dresses for the court 
ladies), I sang my old songs, while my dear, wronged father sat 
and listened. 

These were the happiest hours I had known since I buried my 
little ones. 

I chanced to speak to him, but he did not answer. I fancied he 
had not heard me, and I spoke again ; still no answer. I looked 
up alarmed ; his head had fallen''on his breast, I leant over him ; 
he was dead ! 

A burst of tears put an end for the present to the story of poor 
Grace. I thought myself very cruel, dear Mrs. AVhitely, that I 
had pressed her to call back these sad memories of the past. After 
a while she recovered herself, and stopped my protestations cf 
sorrow that I had urged her to tell me her story. 

I have not much more to say. Madam, she continued. A few 
days later I, the solitary mourner, followed the remains of tho 
once rich citizen to the village churchyard. I was loath to leave a 
place hallowed at once by such painful memories and sweet recol- 
lections of my little ones and my poor father ; but Father Lawson, 
who called on mo whilst my father was yet unburied, urged me to 
do BO. 

I had not enough loft to live upon. I could not bear to bo with 
children, or should have devoted myself to education; but my lost 
ones would have been over before my eyes. I then applied to tho 
queen, introducing myself as the daughter of tho jeweller who had 
set tho jew'els which King Charles had given her on her marriage, 
and telling her tho heads of my story, craved any employment, oven 
of a menial nature, about the palace. 

From Father Lawson 1 learned that you. Madam, were one of 
tho favorite ladies of our dear, saintly ex-queon. lie told mo how 
it Avas you w^ero here, and charged mo to aid you, if in my poor 
power to do so. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEUICK. 


203 


“ My pool’, poor Grace,” I said, and quite overcome by lier sor- 
rowful state, I laid my head on her shoulder, and gave way to a 
flood of tears. 

Then after a while I became calm, and told Grace the exami)le 
of her courage, under trial so unexampled, ought, indeed, to give 
me strength. 

“Madam,” she replied, “my trials were the result of obstinate 
folly, not so yours; but, courage and patience, even should tlie 
CA’O of the day fixed for your bridal bring no help, the morrow’.s 
morn may set you free. God will not let this marriage take place. 
Only bo calm and submissive apparently to the queen’s will, and 
all will yet bo well.” 

After the recital of Grace’s story I became more and more 
attached to her, though I do not like that a woman with a mind 
like her’s should bo employed in menial offices. As far as she is 
concerned, nothing seems to disturb her or to come amiss ; she 
accepts all, I believe, as an atonement for her early transgressions. 

February 12th, 1G92. 

The fifteenth is appointed for my nuptials. Grace still begs mo 
to bear up and feign composure. The task is so hard I feel as if I 
should give way. Oh, for her unwavering faith ! 

February 13th. 

Grace has just entered with my bridal robe, a present from the 
queen. It is a truly royal present. 

■ The petticoat is of white satin, looped up alternately with 
orange blossoms and sprays of pearls and diamonds ; the train of 
Brussels point, the long veil is also of Brussels lace. Oh, my 
God, support me, strengthen me. Am I to be robed a victim for 
the sacrifice 1 Grace still says no, it shall never be ; God will not 
permit it. Oh', Keginald, Reginald, my betrothed ! 

February 14th. 

I cried all night long. Last evening the Count was ovei’whelm- 
ing, the queen kind and even aflectionate in her manner ; even the 
king less boorish. They talked openly about my embarking for 
Holland with the king and the count early in March. Grace is 
calm and composed, though to-morrow seals my fate. She rebukes 
me for the slightest manifestation of distrust in God’s infinite 
power. 


204 


FLOKENCE o’nEILL J OR, 


February 15th. 

Lasi evening I stool with Grace at a window of my chamber 
overlooking the park. The king and count had been out since 
early morning enjoying the pleasures of the chase. My eyes 
streamed with tears. “ A few hours, Grace, and I shall be the 
bride of the Count,” I said, “unless I run away, to be brought 
back, mayhap, and taken to the Tower.” 

Suddenly the king’s hounds appear through a break in the trees, 
and a goodly company of knights and nobles, with the king at 
their head ; but there is no mirth amongst them, they all seem sad 
and sorrowful, we say. 

A few moments later the cause was explained. Half a dozen 
men slowly advanced bearing between them a plank, on which lay 
the form of a man, evidently covered to hide some appalling sight 
beneath. 

I turned sick and faint, my heart seemed to stand still ; a cold 
sweat poured down my face ; I sickened as, in imagination, I pic- 
tured to myself the ghastly burthen stretched beneath the dark 
covering that, improvised for the occasion, had been thrown over 
it. Grace opened the casement; the murmur of many voices fell 
upon my ear; I heard the name of Von Arnheim ; I saw the 
ghastly upturned face as the covering Avas drawn aside, and I sank 
fainting in her arms. 

» * ■» -Sf « •* «■ 

May, 1692. 

The pleasant Spring time has put forth its young green blos- 
soms. Three months have passed since the night that heralded my 
release from the meditated sacrifice, and I am only now recovered 
enough to resume my pen, and give my dear Mrs. Whitely a little 
more news before my faithful Grace consigns these papers to a 
trusty messenger who will see that they reach her hands. 

The horror of the death-struck face of the hapless’young Count, 
who was to have been forced upon me in marriage on the following 
morning, together with the mental anxiety that succeeded that 
terrible night, and the revulsion which that sight occasioned, ended 
in a nervous fever, from which I am but slow'ly recovering. 

Her Majesty, softened by my submissive demeanor respecting 
my marriage, has been kind and sympathizing. Especially w'as 
she touched when she was told that the shock was made so fright- 
fully sudden by my own eyes beholding the body of the Count as 
it was carried into the castle. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


205 


TIio Count was an ardent huntsman, and had entered with the 
king into the full spirit of the chase, hut had managed to separate 
himself from the rest of the company. To come up again with his 
party ho had made an ineffectual attempt to force his horse over a 
gate. 1 ho animal stumbled and fell, throwing his rider, whoso 
head, coming in contact with a block of stone, had produced 
almost immediate death. IIo spoke but a few words, describing 
only the manner of his death, and bidding them bear liis dyinglove 
to myself. Blamo mo not, dear Mrs. Whitely, nor let another 
party deem me unworthy of his love, that I shed tears to the 
memory of this hapless Count. I w'ept over his sudden death and 
his unrequited love. 

For a long while I was delirious. When at last I recovered 
enough to think over the past, I called Grace to my bedside. 

“ Dear Grace,” I said, “ do you remember saying jV would never 
take place ? IIow much do I owe you — first, the example of your 
unwavering trust and confidence in the Providence of God ; and, 
secondly, that, following your counsel, I became passive in the 
hands of the queen. IIow bitterly wmuld she have felt had I 
opposed her to the last ; and, after all, the Providence of God had 
decreed that union should never be.” 

I have written to another person, dear Mrs. Whitely, still very 
dear to me ; but there seems no chance of my leaving this place, so 
that I have released him from all engagements should ho wish to 
bo freed. It will please you, I know, to see that I have found in 
Grace a wise and an invaluable friend. 

“ Poor Florence,” said the queen, when she had finished 
reading her packet of papers, which the king had listened 
to with intense interest, “ she has had and still has much 
to suffer. It is, indeed, a vague matter as to when she will 
bo able to return to us. But St. John shall have the 
perusal of these papers immediately. It will please him to 
see how true she is to her plighted troth, and he will, of 
course, be at no difficulty to surmise the reasons for wffiich 
she expresses a willingness to release him from his engage- 
ment.” 


18 


20G FLOEENCE O'NEILL; OE, 

“ Scud for St. John at once, let him come here,” said the 
king. 

The queen rung a small silver bell. It was answered by 
a page, who was forthwith sent in search of Sir Reginald. 

Between his wounds, illness, and anxiety, St. John was, 
indeed, a very different person to the Sir Reginald who, 
two years since, had visited Sir Charles at Morville Grange. 
His eyes sparkled with pleasure when he saw the bulky 
packet in the hands of the king. His greatest torture con- 
sisted in his inability to release Florence from her state of 
bondage; for he argued, and with reason, if the king and 
queen tried to force her into marrying once, the scheme 
may be repeated, and in the end with success. 

“Tut, man,” said the king, good-humoredly, trying to 
rouse him out of his depression, “ go and read your letter. 
It ought to make you happy the thought alone of your 
betrothed lady’s constancy to you.” As the king spoke he 
held forth the packet, delicately giving, at the same time, 
the sum of fifteen pistoles, folded in a small piece of paper. 
It was thus tho fallen king used to relieve the indigent 
Jacobites whose modesty prevented them from applying to 
him for pecuniary aid. 

Darker and more sad grew the fortunes of the hapless 
exiles. They felt no trial which had befallen them, after 
the usurpation of William, more than witnessing the suffer- 
ings of the devoted Jacobites, who, with unswerving loyalty, 
had given up their estates and fortunes, and were, in fact, 
starving in a foreign land for their sakes, the town of St. 
Germains being filled with Scotch, English, and Irish 
families. 

Not only did James and his consort practise themselves 
the most rigorous self-denial, but also their children, as soon 
as they could be made to understand the miseries of 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


207 


tliese poor people, devoted all their pocket-money to their 
relief, the little princess even paying for the education of 
several of the daughters of the emigrants, and steadily 
resisting all persuasion to lessen her little fund by the pur- 
chase of toys for herself. 

Months passed on, and brought with them such suffering 
that Louis XIV pointed out to James the necessity of dis- 
banding his household troops. The French king was the 
arbiter of his destiny ; to him the unfortunate James owed 
whatever he possessed. A large number of these unfor- 
tunate gentlemen then passed into the service of Louis. 

“ A desolating reform” Mary Beatrice had truly termed 
this reduction of the military establishment at St. Ger- 
mains, and an affecting scene took place between J ames and 
the remainder of the brave followers of Dundee. These 
consisted of 150 officers, all men of honorable birth. They 
knew themselves to be a burthen on James, and begged 
leave to form themselves into a company of private sentinels, 
asking only to bo allowed to choose their own officers. 
James assented, and they went to St. Germains to be 
reviewed by him before they were incorporated with the 
French army. 

A few days later they dressed themselves in accoutre- 
ments borrowed of a French regiment, and drew up in 
order, in a place through which he was to pass as he went to 
the chase. 

The king enquired who they were, and was astonished to 
find them the same men with whom, in garb more becoming 
their rank, he had received at his levee; and struck with 
the levity of his own amusement, compared with the misery 
of those who were suffering for him, instead of going for- 
ward to the chase, he returned to the palace full of sad and 
sorrowful thoughts. 


208 FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 

When the day arrived on which he was to review them, 
he passed along their ranks, and wrote in his pocket-book, 
with his own hand, the name of every one of these gentle- 
men, returning his thanks to each of them in particular. 
Then he removed to the front, and taking off his hat, bowed 
to the whole body. 

The poor king’s intention was to withdraw, but he 
returned, bowed to them again, and then burst into a pas- 
sionate fit of tears. 

The regiment knelt, bent their eyes downwards, then 
rose, and passed the king with the usual honors of war,* 

The speech which the king made to them ended with 
these, words : 

“ Should it be the will of God ever to restore me to my 
throne, it would be impossible for me ever to forget your 
sufferings. There is no rank in my armies to which you 
might not pretend. As to the prince, my son, he is of your 
blood, lie is already susceptible of every impression. 
Brought up amongst you, he can never forget your merit. 
I have taken care that you shall be provided with money, 
shoes, and stockings. Fear God, love one another. Write 
your wants particularly to me, and be assured that you will 
find in me always a parent as well as a king.” 

Poor, disinherited prince I True, indeed, was his father's 
assertion that his heart w’as susceptible. One day, some 
time later, when unable to endure the life of common 
soldiers, fourteen of these gentlemen had permission, 
through King James having written to their commander for 
them to return to Scotland, came to St. Germains to thank 
the king. Four of them, who were in ill health, remained 
there. They were wandering near the palace, and saw a 
little boy of six years old about to enter a coach emblazoned 

*■ Dalrymplc’s Memoirs of Great Britain. 


'JHE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


209 


with the royal arms of Great Britain. This child was the 
son of the exiled king, and was going to Marie. 

He recognized the emigrants, and made a sign for them 
'0 come to him. They advanced, and kneeling down, kissed 
Ijis hands and bathed them with their tears. 

The little prince bade them rise, and with that peculiar 
sensitiveness often early developed by misfortune, told them 
“he had often heard of their bravery ; he had wept over 
their misfortunes as much as those of his parents ; but he 
hoped a day would come when they would find they had not 
made such sacrifices for ungrateful princes.”* Then giving 
them his little purse, containing about a dozen pistoles, he 
requested them to drink the king’s health. 

The child had been virtuously trained ; in fact, some of 
the Jacobites were heard to lament “ that the queen, his 
mother, had brought the prince up more for heaven than for 
earth.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

LETTERS FROM ST. GERMAINS. 

X never ending fear lest the king should again 
be moved to bestow the hand of Florence 
on one of his Dutch parasites, the time 
passed drearily on. She often, indeed, mar- 
velled why Queen Mary detained her at her court unless 
to answer two ends — the one, to ensure a separation from a 
person she detested as much as she did the exiled queen ; 
the other, to have the hand of a disengaged heiress to 
bestow on whomsoever of his Dutch favorites William 
should hereafter feel inclined to favor. 



* Am«:d<5e Picliot. 

18 * 


210 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


The news, too, reached her that Sarsfield and Sir Ecgi- 
nald were both fighting in Flanders, under the French 
king, and sad as she occasionally was under the continued 
apprehension of danger to Sir Reginald, or a renewal of 
tyranny to herself, she would have yielded to a much 
greater extent but for the lessons and example of her hand- 
maiden, who never ceased in times of despondency to remind 
her of the all but miraculous interposition of Providence in 
her regard, when within but a few hours of being made an 
unwilling wife. At the same time it not unfrequently hap- 
pened that she felt an amount of vexation at witnessing the 
extreme placidity of Grace, whom nothing ever ruffled. 
She was quite right in conjecturing that it was the result of 
the lesson she had learned so well whilst passing through 
that fiery ordeal with the husband whom she had been so 
eager to obtain. 

But there was one very near the queen who was made 
sorely to sufier by her Majesty, and this was the Princess 
Anne. The queen was again left by her husband, with 
difficulties surrounding her at every step. Jacobites, or 
persons like Grace, were moving about in her own palace, 
anticipating the restoration of her father, and aware that her 
sister, with whom she was now at variance, had written a 
letter to her father, which she had intercepted, in which 
she had told him “ she would fly to him as soon as he could 
land in any part of Great Britain.” 

Florence was by nature a gentle, timid woman. When 
she witnessed the queen’s treatment of her own sister her 
heart involuntarily recurred to the thought of the danger 
she had escaped, and the certainty there was that in every 
contest that might await her in the future, the powerful and 
arbitrary Mary would win the day against herself. 

The princess had sent a humble message to the queen ^ 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


211 


when, after a time, fraught with much suffering, a child 
was born to her, but who expired almost immediately. 

If the princess thought her situation, seriously ill as she 
was, and grieving over the loss of her child, would move 
her sister, she was doomed to bo mistaken. She never 
asked after her health, but seemed as if she only sought her 
for the purpose of making an attack upon her conduct con- 
cerning the sole cause of their estrangement, the Marl- 
boroughs. She addressed the suffering princess in her 
usual imperious, harsh tone, telling her “she had made the 
first step by coming to her, and expected she would make 
the next by dismissing Lady Marlborough, whose husband 
was her avowed enemy.” 

The princess turned pale, and trembling with agitation, 
told the queen she hoped, at sometime or other, the request 
would appear as unreasonable to her Majesty as it then did 
to herself. 

Hard and inflexible as was her nature, she was struck, it 
may be, with somewhat of remorse, for she said in the pres- 
ence of Florence, on her return to Kensington : 

“lam sorry I spoke as I did to the princess, who had so 
much concern on her at the renewal of the affair that she 
trembled and looked as white as her sheets.” 

Those words she regretted having spoken were the last 
Mary ever uttered to her sister. 

Meanwhile weeks and months passed away. Behind the 
scenes as she was in Mary’s court, Florence learned wisdom 
with each recurring day, seeing as she did how very little 
wealth and exalted rank can purchase in the way of happi- 
ness and content. She knew that the mind of the usurping 
queen was a prey to many cares— treachery often at the 
council table, unfaithfulness in the husband whom she 
almost adored, and rumors ever and again of those risings 


212 FLOEENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 

in favor of her unfortunate father — whicli formed the terror 
of her whole reign ; whilst towards the princess the most 
utter estrangement continued during the latter years of her 
life. 

On one evening, many months after her long letter had 
been received by the ex-queen, the usually impassable 
features of her handmaiden wore an expression of pleasure. 
She advanced to meet her mistress with a package in her 
hand, saying, at the same time, in an under tone, “ I have 
seen Father Lawson; these papers are from Mrs. Whitely.” 

The first enclosure contained a few lines from Sir Regi- 
nald. She opened it eagerly, and read as follows : 

I repeat my former assertion, though. Heaven knows, with a 
sore, despairing heart. My fortunes aro ruined, I am landless, 
homeless, a beggar on the face of the earth, and will not do you, 
my beloved one, such injury as to hold you to your troth. Forget 
that I ever existed. 1 ought to have began this letter with 
informing you that the gallant and brave defender of Limerick, 
Lord Lucan, has received a mortal wound at the battle of Landen. 
He lingered a few days, and then expired in my arms. The name 
of Sarsfield will bo held in honor and veneration by Irishmen in 
ages yet to come, as a pattern of all that should distinguish the 
character of a soldier and a man of honor. 

“The last of my kinsfolk, then, is no more,” thought 
Florence, with a sense of the desolation one experiences 
when aware that we stand alone in the world, with not a 
soul on earth that can claim that blood relationship which, 
alas, that it should be so, does' not always form, as it ought 
to do, the very strongest bond between man and his fellow 
man. Of that, young as she was, she had had practical 
proof in the conduct of the queen’s own family. 

As a relative, Florence knew but little of the gallant 
Lord Lucan, but she had been accustomed to think of him 
with a sense of gratified pride, and a feeling of gladness that 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


213 


she could claim relationship with a man whom his greatest 
enemies spoke of as of unsurpassed bravery and unflinching 
honor. His conduct at Limerick attested the latter in a 
perhaps unexampled degree ; for when help was at last at 
hand, he refused to proflt by it, because he had pledged his 
word to the followers of William. 

The letter from the queen began as follows : 

Another Autumn has passed away. Shall I ever, my dear child, 
clasp you in my arms again ? 

It is how four years since we parted, and if the merciful God has 
sent us both trials, it has pleased Him to carry both yourself and 
your fond Mrs. Whitely safely through them. At present we are 
all in good health, God be thanked. The king continues to load us 
with his benefits, and with countless marks of friendship. Every 
fresh proof fills us with renewed gratitude. Whilst writing on 
this subject, do you remember, my child, that he promised to grant 
our Rose, as he termed yori, any favor she might beg of him here- 
after. It occurs to me that he might be willing to render 3'ou alit- 
tle service in the affairs of a certain person whose disposition and 
affection is unalterable, but who is, alas, too proud to marr^', and 
thus hold you to j'our engagement under present circumstances. 

The remembi'ance of the sad and destitute condition of these 
brave gentlemen, who have made themselves poor and destituto, 
and who have given up everything for us, fills us with the most 
poignant grief, and troubles us far more keenly than our own 
calamities. 

Farewell, ma mignonne. I never cease to pray for you, as for 
myself, that God may fill our hearts with His holy love. We may 
be satisfied with all else that may happen to us if we possess this. 
I may add that I was much interested in the account you gave me 
of your attendant. God has given you a great mark of Ilis good- 
ness, my child, in placing such a person near you. Burn this when 
read; and, once more, farewell. 


214 


FLOEENCE O’NEILL ; OE, 


CHAPTER XXX. . 

ALONE WITH RECORDS OF OTHER DAYS. 

0 you really feel worse, madam? ” 

This enquiry was put to the queen by Flor- 
ence in a tone of anxious consideration on the 
evening of the 20th of December, 1694. 

“ A^'ery much worse, child, indeed, though the king does 
not like to hear me say it. I feel ill, seriously ill.” 

The end was drawing nigh ; that end which levels all 
distinction, when peer and peasant, the crowned head and 
the beggar, are at last equal. 

Did Mary entertain a presentiment that this was to be her 
last ? Her conduct on the night following the day in question 
would lead posterity to believe that she did. 

She always had a high, fresh color, so she had on this 
day in question. She did not look ill, and the two ladies 
who were in the room with our heroine when thih conver- 
sation took place, were loth to believe that her Majesty’s 
indisposition were other than trifling. Indeed, she had 
never been in her usual health or spirits since about three 
weeks ago, when the service at AVhitehall came to a full stop 
in consequence of Archbishop Tillotson who was ofiiciating 
in tho queen’s presence, being struck with apoplexy, he 
never spoke again, but died in a few days. 

Like many ladies in our own time. Queen Mary was apt 
to be obstinate in the remedies she used when unwell. 
Vainly had a faithful physician warned her against tho use 
of a spirituous cordial, which she was accustomed to swal- 
low in large doses. She partook of it on this occasion, and 
shortly afterwards became much woi-se. 

For a short time Florence was alone with the queen, and 



THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


215 


mauy thoughts passed through her mind, connected with 
her own presence in the palace. She had been endeavoring 
to rally the queen’s drooping spirits to the best of her 
power, and the latter seemed to have fallen asleep, and 
ceasing to talk, Florence fixed her gaze on the full face with 
that high complexion, and the large corpulent figure of the 
queen — her size had become such as is rarely seen in a 
woman — still in the prime of life. Suddenly the queen 
opened her eyes, she was not asleep as Florence had 
imagined, but was thinking with closed eyes, probably, on 
the more youthful personage beside her, whom partly from 
whim, and partly from interested motives, she had for some 
four or five years monopolized to herself in a species of hon- 
orable captivity. Suddenly Mary exclaimed in a hard, 
abrupt tone, which made Florence start : 

“ What are you thinking of, what made you stop so sud- 
denly?” 

“ I believed you were asleep, madam, and — ” 

“Yes, very well,” interrupted the queen, “I will not 
press you too closely, instead of insisting on your telling 
me your thoughts ; you shall hear what mine were ; I was 
thinking of you.” 

“Of nie, madam,” said Florence in a tone of astonish- 
ment. 

“ Yes, I was analysing the reasons which had made me 
constitute you one of my maids of honor. I was thinking 
of a terrible night three years since when you saved my 
life; also, of your conduct at the time the king had 
decreed that you should marry that unfortunate Count, you 
very rashly contested the point at the time, but I was well 
satisfied wish your conduct later. Tell me child, in case 
I should die, is there any request you wt uld like granted. 
I do not know whij, but I feel a passing sympathy for you 


216 FLOKENCE o’NEILL ; OE, 

at times, and so put it to account of the circumstances I 
have mentioned.” 

A strange feeling kept Florence for a moment silent ; she 
was aroused by the queen demanding if she had heard what 
she had been saying to her. 

“ Yes, madam, but I was perplexed to know how to 
answer your Majesty, This is but a passing illness, let us 
hope, why should you think you will die ?” 

“ I am mortal, am I not,” said the queen ; “ fetch me a 
pen, and ink, and paper, from my escretoire.” 

With an expression of unfeigned wonder in her face, 
Florence assisted the queen to rise, though she still main- 
tained a reclining position; she was about to write when, as 
if a sudden thought occurred to her, she paused, saying : 

“ There is a person acting as your maid ; how very ugly 
she is ; she has known better days, as the phrase goes, and 
I fancy she is attached to you ; do you like Grace Wilmot ? 
Tell mo briefly, child, for I am very faint and must lie down 
again speedily.” 

“ Yes, madam, I like Grace Wilmot very much,” was 
the reply. 

Then Mary grasped the pen, and paused for one moment 
as if to clothe her ideas in words; then the royal hand 
passed hurriedly over the paper. When she had finished 
writing, she again laid down, whilst she requested Florence 
to light her a taper, and bring her wax and a seal. She then 
folded the paper together in form of a letter, scaled it and 
wrote upon the cover. 

“ To be delivered to the king in case of my death.” 

“ If I recover from this illness, you will return this letter 
to me unopened ; if I die, you will deliver it to the king 
within a day of my decease. Be careful to do as I tell you, 
as you value what you may consider your own happiness.” 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


217 


A faint smile crossed the queen’s face as she noticed the 
look of bewilderment on that of Florence, who replied not 
without emotion, that she hoped the day of her death might 
ho long distant, and that she trusted to return it to the 
queen in a few days. 

“ Remember, not a ivord is to be said in connection with 
that to any breathing being ; put it carefully aside, child, 
and now leave me to myself. I do not want you again to- 
night.” 

lleturncd to her own room, Florence carefully locked the 
queen’s letter in her cabinet, and lost in a maze of the 
wildest conjecture, for the paper certainly concerned herself. 
She was still sitting by the fire, abstracted and thoughtful, 
when Grace entered the room ; the latter was at no loss to 
divine that something more than usual had occurred during 
her interview with the queen, but delicacy and respect kept 
her silent. 

Coupled with the remarks the queen had previously made, 
Florence was at no loss to surmise that she had touched the 
heart of the queen, in so far as it was at all accessible, but 
never dreamed of the matter the papers really contained. 

She had gone to rest at her usual hour, but had lain 
awake till after the palace clock had struck the hour of 
twelve, vainly trying to guess the purport of those hur- 
riedly written lines. 

When she at last fell asleep, all was silent as the grave, 
not the faintest sound was to bo heard. 

She awakened, startled by a noise; of that she was cer- 
tain, for her heart beat and she started as one is apt to do 
whose sleep is not naturally disturbed. 

The beams of the wintry moon streamed through the cur- 
tains^ partially drawn aside at the foot of the bed. The 
19 


218 


FLOKE^'Ci: o’nEIEL; OE, 


room Avas fioodcd with its strong light ; sho could see around 
it, all was perfectly still and safe. 

Hut again she heard that noise, and again sho fears, for 
she remembers the night at Whitehall. 

A few moments more and a deep sigh breaks upon the 
dead stillness around, and then she hears the rustling of 
paper, and becomes aware that some one whoso chamber is 
very close to her own, is keeping watch that cold December 
night. And, moreover, that their occupation must needs 
bo the examination and destruction of papers of importance. 
Then Florence began to think what rooms were between 
her own and the q[ueen’s bed-chamber, and sho remembered 
that the bed-rooua gave admittance to a private closet used 
by the queen, and that the corner of her own room, near 
the head of her bed, must run parallel with this very closet. 

A thrill of horror ran through her veins, and sho still 
listened attentively, hoping sho might hear the murmur of 
the king’s voice or some other person’s. It seemed so very 
terrible to her to think, that ill as sho was, the queen was 
sitting up alone, forgetting the folly of such a step. Sho 
had partially thrown aside her bedclothes with the idea 
of going to the queen’s room and urging her to go to rest, 
and allow her to perform the work on which sho was 
engaged. 

Again a deep sigh, and a moan as of a soul in anguish, 
as it looks over the records of the past. It is followed by 
the sound of paper being crushed or torn ; she hears, too, the 
queen’s low cough, and shudders, for sho knows well what 
her occupation must be that long cold winter’s night. 

Sho was alone, quite alone ; of that Florence was now 
perfectly convinced ; nor is it likely was she at all incorrect in 
surmising that the queen’s occupation was that of destroying 
important papers connected with her usurpation of the 
crown. 


f 


I THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 219 

Florence remembered having heard the late king speak 
of the pains he took the night before ho left Whitehall, to 
preserve every document or paper which could inform pos- 
terity as to his conduct, whilst his more fortunate and guilty 
daughter was evidently destroying with her own hand, every 
paper that could speak with certainty of her own personal 
histor3^ 

“ She does then entertain an idea that she will not live,” 
said Florence ; “ and how terrible must such an occupation 
be.” 

One, two, and three o’clock struck, and though she 
fought against it for a long while, Florence at last fell asleep, 
but not for long. She dreamed she was sitting with the 
queen looking over old letters ; old letters that had passed 
between herself and the Princess Anne, when they were 
villainously plotting about their best of fathers. Old let- 
ters from her father to herself, old records of the times for- 
ever gone, in which she had taken so prominent a part. 
Having taken which, if she would retrace one step, she 
could not any more than that the dead .-can come to life 
again. And the queen sat opposite to her, looking, as per- 
chance she really did look, as she must have looked on that 
terrible night, unless she was more than human, for the 
fever of death was even then, be it remembered, coursing 
madly through her veins. One after another, one after 
another^ she glances at those old letters and documents, 
then tears them, or crushing them in her hot hands, throws 
them beneath the stove, watching the blue flame play over 
them, with a smile of infinite satisfaction at the thought 
that she has robbed posterity of much it would have liked 
to know. 

One after another, have rolls of paper^ been opened, 
patiently scanned, and the greater portion of them com- 


220 


FLOEENCE O'NEILL ; OR, 


mitted to the flames. And Florence in her vision of the 
night, sees she grows weary of her task ; she leans forward, 
pressing the throbbing head with the hot hand, and says to 
herself; “ Three hours and not yet done,” for the crowing 
of the cock in a distant farm-yard, tells the unhappy queen 
how long into the night, or rather the morning, her watch 
has extended ; and Florence fancies she hears her say, ‘ ‘ and 
if I die now it was all done, but for six short years of rest- 
less ambition.” 

She awakened at first scarcely conscious till a smothered 
exclamation, alike of bodily and mental sufiering, followed 
by a sound as if the unhappy occupant of the adjoining 
cabinet were sobbing violently, burst upon her ear. All 
was then perfectly quiet. The dream of Florence, you see, 
was but the recitation of what she had heard whilst she was 
awake. It was hard to think the sight, if mortal eyes could 
have beheld it, were one whit less pitiful than she had 
dreamed it to be. If you bear in mind what such a sight 
would be to you, if death were coming on with rapid strides ; 
and if earnest to "destroy records of your past life, instead 
of the rest so necessary, such occupation as I have de- 
scribed was yours, and if you closed it too, as Mary did 
with a letter to her boorish, brutal husband, reproaching 
him with his love for the notorious Elizabeth Villiers, Sne 
had sinned very deeply in her idolatrous love of him, and 
this was the last letter she ever wrote, endorsing, “Not 
to bo delivered except in case of my death,” then she locked 
it up in an ebony cabinet, where, of course, it was found 
after all was over. 

Now it very probably was this letter she was v;riting, 
when all was still beyond the heart-rending sobs Florence 
had overheard, ^or there was no more rustling of papers, 
and a very little time afterwards, after the clock had struck 


THE SIEGE OP LIMERICK. 


221 


four, slic heard the queen pass into the adjoining bed- 
chamber, and you may suppose that Mary was worse, as 
she really was after such a watch as this. The following 
day she was declared to have the small-pox ; think, I beg 
you, how her previous night had been spent, 

Florence, with the other ladies of the court, wondered 
much what steps the Princess Anne would take (of course 
I need not tell you she said nothing of what she knew 
respecting the queen’s frame of mind on the previous 
night). 

The princess did her duty ; she was ill and confined 
to a couch; nevertheless^ she sent a message -to her 
sister entreating her to allow her tho happiness of waiting 
on her. She would, notwithstanding the condition she was 
in, run any hazard. Tho message was delivered to her 
Majesty, and tho messenger sent back with word that “ the 
king would send an answer the next day.” 

No kind sisterly message was returned ; no reconciliation 
could have been desired. Have we not seen all along 
that Mary’s heart was almost dead to human feeling except 
for her husband ? And even to him she left a letter of 
rebuke. 

It happened the next day that Florence was with two 
other ladies in the queen’s bed-chamber ; the queen was 
sinking fast into unconsciousness, when Lady Fitzharding, 
who undertook to express to all tho concern of the Princess 
Anne, forced herself into the queen’s bcd-chambcr ; the. 
dying queen gasped out one word “ Thanks.” That single 
word was, indeed, all she was able to utter. 

At length a terrible erysipelas spread itself over the 
queen’s face, and a frightful carbuncle settled immediately 
over the heart. The king was in despair, ho ordered his 
19 * 


222 


FI>ORENCE o’kEILL; OR, 


camp-bed to be placed in tlic chamber of his dying consort, 
and remained with her night and day. 

She received the communication that she was dying 
with calmness, said, “that she had wrote her mind on 
many things to the king,” and spoke of the escretoire which 
he would find in her closet ; and avoided giving herself or 
licr husband the tenderness a final parting might have 
caused to them both. This idea is, however, much at 
variance with the rebuking letter she wrote to him a few 
nights since in her closet.* 

After receiving the Sacrament, she composed herself sol- 
emnly to die. She slumbered some time, but said her soul 
was not refreshed by it and that nothing did her good but 
prayer. Once or twdee she tried to speak to the king, but 
could not go through with it. For some hours she lay 
silent, then when she spoke she wandered very wildly and 
her hallucinations led those wdio were around her to believe 
that there was something still upon her mind. 

“I have something to tell the Archbishop; leave me 
alone with him,” said the queen, and the room being imme- 
diately cleared, Tennison awaited in breathless impatience, 
the expected communication. 

He afterwards said that the queen’s mind was wandering, 
‘^she had fancied Dr. Radcliffc, her Jacobite physician, 
had put a Popish nurse upon her, and that she was lurking 
behind a screen. One who lived in the time of the queen 
on speaking of her last moments uses these words. 

f* ‘ Put whether she had any scruples relating to her father, 
and they made part of her discourse with Tennison, and 
that arch-divine took upon his own soul the pressures 


♦Burnett’s History of His Own Times. 
tKennet. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


223 


which, in those weak unguarded moments might weigh 
upon hers, must now remain a secret until the last day.” 

At that most solemn hour between night and morning, 
the spirit of the queen went forth, without one word of re- 
conciliation or remorse with regard to her injured father, 
either to ask his forgiveness or to express sorrow for her 
conduct. 

Father Lawson was yet lingering in the vicinity of the 
palace when the queen’s death took place. There were 
others, besides Florence and her handmaiden, secretly of the 
proscribed faith, and by one of these, the tidings was con- 
veyed to James, who though ho would not put himself in 
mourning for her death, shut himself up in his apartments 
and refused all visits. His horror was great on finding 
that one he had loved so dearly had expired without send- 
ing him the slightest expression of sorrow, at the misery 
she had been the means of causing him. 

To the great honor of that primate, I)r. Ken, who had 
been Mary’s chaplain in Holland, we may add, that he 
wrote indignantly to Tennison respecting his conduct at the 
queen’s death-bed, charging him wdth not acting up to his 
position as primate, in failing “to call on the queen to 
repent on her death-bed of her sins towards her father,” 
reminding him in very strong language of the horror Ten- 
nison had expressed to him of some circumstances in the 
queen's conduct at the time of the revolution, afiirming 
that they would compromise her salvation, without indi- 
vidual and complete repentance. 

Three times had the king swooned when word was brought 
him that the queen was no more. He persisted in remain- 
ing at Kensington, and as no one dared intrude on his grief, 
Florence was at a loss how to convey to him the letter of 
the queen ; chance, however, tlirew her in his way. 


224 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


The queen’s funeral had taken place, and she was begin- 
ning seriously to think of addressing herself to the Princess 
Anne, when, wandering down one of the galleries of the 
palace, she met the king advancing toward her ; to retreat 
was impossible. He would have passed her by, for his 
head was bent downwards, and he seemed lost in thought. 

Her step, liowever, aroused him, and he seemed about to 
pass on, when, as if a sudden idea struck him, he paused. 

“ I will speak of you to the Princess Anne,” he said, 
and was walking on, when summoning courage by the 
thoughtfulness he had expressed, she knelt down, and grace- 
fully presented to him the dead queen’s letter. A flush 
akin to anger, it might be, passed like a momentary shadow 
across his countenance ; and in somewhat harsh tones, he 
exclaimed : 

“ You may go.” 

She scarcely understood his meaning, and rising, and 
turning as to leave the gallery, looked enquiringly in his 
5ace. 

“ You may go,” he repeated ; “ go from here ; go where 
you will, with your maid ; read, and go quickly.” 

Her eyes fell on the few lines the dying queen had writ- 
ten, and which, passing on without further word or com- 
ment, the king left in her hand. They ran thus : 

“ In remembrance of my maid of honor, Florence O’Neill, Lav- 
ing saved my life during the lire at Whitehall, and also of her sub- 
mission to our ■will respecting the overtures of marriage from the 
Count Von Arnheim, 1 bcg'that you will allow her to leave the 
palace, with her maid, whenever she pleases to go, wheresoever 
she shall see lit ; and as she has how turned her twenty-first year, 
that she may have the full and entire management of her late 
uncle’s property, as well as of the Irish estates inherited from her 
aunt, Catherine O’Neill. Marie E. 

Florence was alone in the gallery, and, for two or three 


THE SIEGE OP LniEEICHc 


225 


minutes after reading the paper, remained in the position 
in which William of Orange had left her. Joy is near akin 
to grief in her manifestations, and her tears fell abundantly 
over the paper as she proceeded to her own chamber, her 
mind busily weaving a thousand delightful images by the 
way. 

When she reached her rooms she immediately summoned 
Graee. When that imperturbable hand-maiden made her 
appearance she was seated with that small piece of paper 
open on the table, her hands clasped, and an expression of 
joy on her countenance. 

“ Grace,” she said, “ I am going to France. Will you 
accompany me thither ? ” 

“To France, madam,” said the astonished woman, and 
her eyes fell on the open letter of the queen. 

“I have permission of the king. A voice from the 
grave, which he dared not refuse, has spoken to him. You 
may read if you wish,” and, with a something of reverence, 
she put the dead queen’s letter in her attendant’s hand. 
You must make your election, Grace, and make it quickly.” 

“ It is already made, madam,” said Grace. “ I love the 
queen better just now than I ever loved her in her lifetime. 
When shall we go ? ” 

“ Pack up my clothes and books at once, Grace ; let us go 
as speedily as possible.” 

Then Florence withdrew to her private apartment, and 
you may be quite sure that for some little time she felt like 
one in a dream, dazed, bewildered. Should she go straight 
to St. Germains ? Oh, no ; she should act upon a hint the 
Queen Mary Beatrice had given her. She should seek out 
King Louis, and beg him to redeem his word ; because you 
will please to remember that when she met the king at 
Marly, more than ‘four years since, he had told her he 
would grant any boon she at any time wished to ask of him. 


226 


FLORENCE o’NEILL ; OR, 


I shall not say what boon she meant to ask, but her 
thoughts might be thus construed into words. 

“I shall go to Paris, and then enquire where King Louis 
holds his court. If I can get speech of Madame de Main- 
tenon I will, because the king will refuse her no favor she 
asks of him, though he has already passed his word to me 
to grant whatever boon I solicit. I shall then go to Tt. 
Germains. How surprised they will all be to see me again ; 
and he, to whom I have been so long betrothed, what will 
he say when I give him the message I am sure to take him 
from King Louis.” 

Do not blame her, too, that when her soliloquy was ended, 
her tears fell to the memory of Queen Mary. How little 
did she think that the queen, on that morning her hand had 
traced those lines, was thinking how she should at least 
remedy one wrong. She had decided on speaking to her 
husband, as it were, from the grave. Thus she secured to 
Florence her property, as well as her freedom. Probably 
when she begged her so earnestly to give the king the paper 
the day after her death, the thought may have occurred to 
her that permission would bo refused, if time were allowed 
to pass over, so as for the wound, occasioned by her loss, to 
heal up before the request was made. 

There was not small surprise evinced by the ladies of the 
court at the departure of Florence ; but with persons of great- 
er importance, even as with Mary herself, she speedily passed 
out of the minds of those amongst whom she had moved. 

Half fearing to put herself in the way of the king, and 
yet not liking to leave the palace without craving an audi- 
ence, she begged one of the ladies in attendance on the 
Princess Anne to ask if she might have an interview with 
him. The king’s boorish and uncouth message was worthy 
of himself : 

“ Tell her I do not want to see her.” 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


227 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

TUB KIXg’s pledge BEDEEMED — ST. GEKMAINS. 

was it for Florence O’Neill that she was 
to be chaperoned into France by one 
itaid and faithful as Grace. The young 
as we have intimated, by no means 
intended to visit St. Germains first. It was not her 
intention to go thither till she had first armed herself by 
receiving the boon concerning which she was about to throw 
herself at the feet of the French king. Perhaps she was not 
unconscious that she was performing a rather daring feat in 
being under no protection, when presenting herself at the 
court of the gallant monarch, beyond that of Grace, a woman 
of middle age, whom Florence had insisted on raising from 
the humble calling of an attendant to the position of a friend 
and companion, and which, by her education and good 
breeding, she was eminently calculated to fill. 

On arriving in France she heard that the king was hold- 
ing his court at Marly, and she immediately proceeded 
thither. She had resolved, first, to gain an interview with 
Madame de 3Iaintenon. She knew well that that lady was 
the bosom counsellor of the king. Moreover, under her 
patronage, notwithstanding her doubtful rank, she should 
present herself before Louis with less diffidence. 

It was more than four years since that pleasant summer 
day, when she had accompanied the king and queen to 
Marly. The place, and persons, and times, arc altered now. 

Then roses, and lilies, and verbena, and sweet-scented 
heliotrope cast their balmy* perfume on the air, and the fields 
and hedges were gay with the wild violet and poppy. Now, 
the hand of winter was spread over the scene ; the hoar 



228 


FLOKENCE o’nEILL; OE, 


frost glistened on the trees and porticoes, and the miniature 
lakes of Marly were covered with a sheet of iee. 

She, too, is ehanged ; she had sprung from girlhood to 
womanhood ; her almost matchless beauty matured, but in 
no degree lessened. Others have changed; she will find 
traces of the pressure of its hand on those from whom she 
has been separated, even as they will no longer behold in 
her the Florence of four years since. Times, too, have 
altered. She had smiled when Louis had promised to grant 
her any boon she might wish for, wondering, in the proud 
recklessness of youth, what she could ever want to ask for 
herself in the way of a boon from Louis, 

She was at Marly now as a suppliant to beg cf the gallant 
king to make good his word. And why ? Two fair estates 
arc hers. Joyfully would she fling it all at the feet of him 
to whom she was betrothed ; but well she knows his haughty 
temper, and that he will never complete that betrothal by 
marriage, unless he can retrieve his shattered fortunes. 

“ And you are the petite O’Neill, whom I have heard 
Madame la Reine deplore the loss of so bitterly,” said 
Madame de Maintenon, in a tone not unmingled with sur- 
prise, as she fixed her eyes on the somewhat stately and 
elegant lady before her. , 

“ You must bo pleased to remember, Madame, that four 
years have passed since I left St. Germains.” 

‘ ‘ Ah, dcst vrat, I had forgotten ; the girl is now a 
woman,” 

“ And lovelier far than when she was a girl, moii Dieu,^’ 
said the king, coming forward from an inner apartment, in 
spite of the significant glances of Madame, who knew well 
he was near at hand. “ My cousins at St. Germains,” he 
added, “ will scarce recognize the runaway O’Neill again.” 

“Oh, sire, I am indeed unprepared to meet your 


THE SIEGE OP LIMERICK. 


229 


majesty,” said Florence, rising, with a blush upon her 
cheek ; and Louis put out his hand to raise her from the 
kneeling attitude she Lad assumed. 

“ Never fear, maiden,” he replied, “ I passed my word 
as a king that I would grant any boon you should ask of me 
in the day of trouble or distress. What is the trouble, my 
fair O’Neill ? Let me know, and I will right it for you.” 

A deep blush again suffused the face of Florence. She 
had not counted at all on meeting the king on this first 
visit. She had hoped to ingratiate Madame de Maintenon 
in her favor, and tell her story to her first, when the deli- 
cate portion of her visit would have been half got over. 

At length she, with difficulty, stammered out: 

“ Oh, sire, I know not how to prefer my petition. It 
was to ask a boon for a brave English gentleman whom Wil- 
liam of Orange has outlawed, and whose estates he has con- 
fiscated and — ” 

“Aye, prithee, what then?” interrupted the king. 
“ Art pleading for a mate for yourself, maiden ? We must 
see you do not wed a landless knight.” 

“ Your majesty,” replied Florence, blushing yet more 
deeply, “ I have lands and estates in abundance, being 
heiress to the last of my kindred ; but, alas, he to whom I 
am betrothed has lost his all, and it is for him I beg the 
performance of your kingly promise. If your majesty 
would allow him to fight under your standard, and — ” 

“ Fair Florence,” said the courtly monarch, interrupting 
her, “ the boon I have promised you I will not fail to pay. 
Are you pleading for a certain Sir Reginald, who, on 
account of his poverty, shrinks from redeeming his troth 
with a maiden of good lineage till he can make good his 
ruined fortunes ? ” 

20 


230 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


“ It is in behalf of Sir Reginald St. John that I crave the 
fulfilment of your majesty’s promise,” answered Florence. 

“Assuredly I will redeem it; nay, I have redeemed 
already to the full the promise I gave four years since. 
Rest content, Florence, I knew your secret before you came 
hither. The good queen has already mentioned your 
betrothal to me. Rut yesterday Sir Reginald was appointed 
to a command under one of my brave marshals.” 

Florence would have spoken her thanks, but could not. 
She was moved to tears at the delicacy wtih which le grand 
monarque had conferred the appointment. 

“ Nay, weep not, Florence,” he said ; “ I am rejoiced I 
have had it in my power to serve you, and by so doing for- 
ward the nuptials of a brave gentleman with a fair and 
virtuous lady. Now, to turn to other matters. When do 
you return to St. Germains ? ” 

“ As soon as possible, your majesty. I am most anxious 
again to sec my dear mistress.” 

“ Let the young lady partake of refreshments, madam,” 
said the king, turning to Madame de Main tenon, “ and a 
carriage shall be in readiness a little later to convey you to 
St. Germains, fair Florence,” added Louis, touching her 
forehead with his lips. 

It was drawing towards the close of the winter afternoon 
ero our heroine arrived again at the well-remembered 
chateau of St. Germains. 

The king and his consort were together, seated in the 
cleset of the fermer. The light of the winter afternoon was 
fading away, but the bright, red glew of a large wood fire 
fell upon the antique panelings of green and gold, and 
gave a cheery appearance to the chamber and its surround- 
ings. Beside the fire sat the queen, her hands folded on 
her lap. Time had left its traces on her fair face, but 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


231 


witbal there was an expression of patience and resignation 
that told she had learned to place her hopes on other than 
an earthly kingdom. 

Beside a small table, in the centre of the room, sat the 
kiug, his countenance more impaired by sorrow than by 
years. He had not yet recovered from this second scar, the 
grief which his daughter’s death had caused him, dying, as 
she did, unreconciled, and without sending him one kindly 
word. 

Suddenly there was a slight tap at the door, and the page 
announced a lady. 

Tall, and veiled, and slender, a female form advances ; 
but uncovering her face as she approaches the queen, she 
throws herself at her feet. 

King James started at the intrusion. He had not recog- 
'nized the visitor. For a moment, too, the queen was 
equally lost in surprise, but the tones of the voice are 
remembered, as, exclaiming, “ My dear, dear mistress,” 
Florence pressed the queen’s hands'to her lips, and bathed 
them with her tears. 

For a moment Mary Beatrice could not speak. Then she 
pushed back the golden locks that clustered over her brow, 
saying : 

“ Yes, it is herself, her very self ; but yet how changed, 
the girl has become a woman, but it is the face of Florence 
still.” 

“ Novvf, Florence, Florence, is it possible,” said the king, 
good-humoredly, rising, as she drew near. “ At last, then, 
you have got quit of the court, and come back like a 
weary bird to its nest. I wonder not that the queen did 
not know you ; you are changed, very changed,” and an 
admiring gaze it was that he fixed upon Florence, while his 
queen overwhelmed her with enquiries as to how she had at 


232 


FLORENCE o’NEILL ; OR, 


last got away from Kensington, the manner of her route to 
St. Germains, and many other questions. 

Of course her replies involved making the queen 
acquainted with the visit to King Louis. It was a step 
rather at variance with the notions of the queen that Flor- 
ence should have visited the king’s court alone. But she 
was safe at St. Germains, and had faced and braved dangers 
greater than that of making deiovr in her homeward way to 
pay a short visit to the King of France. 

Suddenly pausing the queen rose, saying : “ Shall she not 
see Jiini to-night, he will sleep the sounder for it, depend 
on it.” 

“No, not till the morning,” replied the king, “he has 
been at Versailles all day, and has probably not returned. 
Let the child have refreshment and a night’s rest, and see St. 
John on the morrow.” 

With her own hands Mary Beatrice, who had followed 
Florence with an attendant into the old room she had occu- 
pied years since, then helped to divest her of her travelling 
garb, asking in a pathetic tone when she had again seated 
herself, what she thought of the king’s appearance. 

“ His Majesty,” said Florence, “looks much older, but 
then, madam, four years have passed, those years have 
made an alteration in all of us.” She might have added, 
“ the king looks ill, careworn, and depressed.” 

The queen never left the side of her favorite that even- 
ing. Moreover, she was hurried to the royal nursery, to 
see the infant princess whom James had styled at her birth 
La Consolatrice (because, he said, “ she was to console 
him for the evil conduct of his elder daughters”), and also 
the bright and blooming Prince of Wales, now a lovely 
boy of six years old. 

It followed, as a matter of cour.?e, that Florence spent 


THE SIEGE OF LIMEEICK. 


233 


the entire evening in the closet of the king. Not only was 
James and his consort rejoiced to see their protegee, again, 
but she had come from the Court of William and Mary, in 
which she had spent the four years of her absence. And 
though James never knew to the day of his death, the 
extent of the treachery of his daughter Anne, his eyes 
were opened to much of family cabal to which she had be- 
come prey’, during her residence at Kensington. 

Notwithstanding their disgust they were both amused by 
the ludicrous account Florence gave them of the boorish 
conduct of William to herself, at her last interview, as also 
at the message that most polite king sent to her the day 
before she left the palace. Indeed, so fond was William of 
Orange of appreciating to himself the monies of other per- 
sons, that there was but little doubt his dislike to Florence 
was increased by the fact that, after all, he had to let her 
and her money slip through his fingers. Doubtless, had 
she remained at the court long enough for the sore occa- 
sioned by the queen’s death to have healed up, he would 
not have stood upon any great punctilio as to whether he 
fulfilled her request or not. 

Three years later the pages of history make known to us 
that the queen Mary Beatrice sufiered fearfully from this 
dishonest propensity of the king to appropriate to himself 
the money of others. Parliament had agreed to pay a 
pension of £50,000 per annum to that unfortunate queen, 
of which she never received a farthing. William deceived 
the nation, and defrauded the queen; he put the money 
into his own pocket. That pension might have been ob- 
tained at a later date when William and Anne had both 
passed away. The money might have been reimbursed, 
but the royal exiles would not, and rightly, stoop to ask for 
it as subjecls. 

20 * 


234 


FLORENCE o’NEILL ; OR, 


When Florence first awoke on the following morning, she 
had some difficulty in comprehending that really she was 
back again at St. Germains. She had to glance round 
the old, well-remembered room, and rouse herself thor- 
oughly before she could satisfy herself, that it was not some 
pleasant dream, the illusion of which was about to be dis- 
pelled. I beg you also to bear in mind that there was a person 
to whom she was, in a manner, already united, and whom she 
was, of course, very anxious to see once again, whom dur- 
ing the years of their separation she had never forgotten ; 
every moment seemed trebled in duration till she beheld 
him again ; no formal meeting was theirs to be either. The 
king and queen were to have nothing whatever to do with 
it. She could not sleep again for very joy though it was 
yet early ; the morning was bright and clear, there was the 
valley once more, how different the prospect to that of four 
weary years. She arose, and dressed herself, threw on a 
heavy furred mantle, and went out to ramble on the ter- 
race, enjoying with the keen relish of one who had long 
endured a sort of honorable captivity, the cool bracing 
air, the lovely prospect, notwithstanding it was winter, and 
above all the blessed consciousness that she was with those 
whom she loved, and by whom she was beloved. 

She paused after a while, leaned against the palisades, 
and a sense of quiet happiness, to which she had long been 
a stranger, took possession of her heart. 

Absorbed in her own pleasant joyous thoughts, she heard 
nothing, saw nothing, regarded not the lapse of time, knew 
not that the fond eyes of Queen Mary Beatrice, attended 
by another to whom she was dearer far than life itself, 
were looking down upon her from a window of the chateau, 
and was still looking far away into the future, weaving 
bright dreams of wedded happiness, picturing to herself 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


235 


how a ccrtaia chateau, at present vacant, in the valley, 
might be redecorated, and of all the good she with her 
wealth 1‘iight be able to do for the poor emigrants, when 
the words, 

“ Florence, my betrothed,” fell on her ear in the tones of 
a well-remembered voice, like a stream of music, the mel- 
ody of which has never been forgotten. 

The surprise was too sudden, she would have fallen but 
for a strong arm outstretched to support her, and then 
when she recovered, and he grew eloquent in praise of her 
constancy ana truth, and forgetful of all the world beside, 
they talked over the days that had gone by, and conjured 
up fair visions of the future, of homo ties and joys which 
Death alone should break. 

In the midst of her new found happiness, Florence had 
not forgotten Grace, the friend to whom she owed so very 
much, in whoso character flourished, by the grace of re- 
pentance, those same virtues inherent in the queen. 

.The packet containing the story of her life, Florence had 
a year since forwarded to the queen, had of itself been 
sufficient to introduce her to her notice. 

Not very long, you may be sure, were the nuptials of 
Florence and Sir Reginald delayed. In the Chapel Royal 
of St. Germains that ceremony which completed their be- 
trothal was soon celebrated, being fixed to take place imme- 
diately after the Easter festivities. 

In the middle of the week following Low Sunday, there 
was a great gathering at the Chapel of St. Germains. The 
fond hands of Grace, who looked on Florence as her own 
child, had dressed the bride’s hair, had twined amongst the 
golden tresses the delicate orange blossom, and arranged 
the veil, and had decked her in as costly a robe as that 
which Mary of England had presented her with two years 
since ; it was the gift of Louis of France. 


23& 


FLOEENCE O'KEILL ; OE, 


Eight young ladies, chosen from the most distinguished 
Jacobite families resident at St. Germains, acted as brides- 
maids, and King James gave the bride away. The French 
King was also present with Madame de Maintenon and 
many of the nobles of his court. Without doubt, those who 
gathered within the Chapel Royal were right in saying 
there could not be found in the whole realm of France, a 
lovelier or more virtuous bride, or a braver knight than 
Florence O’Neill and Sir Reginald St. John. 

* * * * 1 = * * * * * 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER. 

“Remember, 0 Lord, what is come upon us, consider 
and behold our reproach.” This verse of the Lamentation 
was sung in the choir of Chapel Royal at St. Germains, 
seven years after the marriage of Florence O’Neill, 

The words I have quoted touched a chord in the heart 
of King James, he sank back in the arms of the queen in 
a swoon. 

Many months of weakness and infirmity had brought 
him to tho brink of the grave, the hour so dreaded by 
Mary Beatrice had at length arrived. 

The children of his old age now stand around his bed ; 
before the king receives the rites of the Church, he wishes 
to counsel and bid them farewell. 

The prince first drew nigh, and embracing him with pas- 
sionate earnestness James spoke to him in these words : 

“ I am now leaving the world which has been to me a 
sea of storms and tempests, it being the will of Almighty 
God to wean me from it by many and great afflictions. 
Serve Him with all your strength and never put the crown 
of England in competition with your eternal salvation. 
There is no slavery like sin, no liberty like His service, If 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


237 


lie in His providence shall see fit to place you on the throne 
of your royal ancestors, govern your people •with justice 
and clemency. Remember, kings are not made for them- 
selves but for the good of their people. Set before their 
eyes in your own actions a pattern of all manner of virtues, 
consider them as your own children. You are the child of 
vows and prayers, behave yourself accordingly. Honor 
your mother that your days may be long ; and be always a 
kind brother to your dear sister that you may reap the 
blessings of concord and- unity.” The prince gave way to 
a passionate burst of grief. The little Princess Louisa was 
then brought, bathed in tears, to her dying father’s bed- 
side. She was one of the loveliest of children, and young as 
she was the intelligent child understood the sorrow that 
impended over her. 

“Adieu, my dear child,” said the king after he had em- 
braced and blessed her, “adieu. *Serve your Creator in 
the days of your youth, consider virtue as the brightest or- 
nament of your sex. Follow closely in the steps of that 
great pattern of virtue, your mother, who has been, no less 
I'han myself overburdened with calumny, but Time, the 
mother of Truth, will, I hope, at last, make her virtues 
shine as bright as the sun.” 

Then the dying king exhorted his servants to lead holy 
and Christian lives, and after he had received the last Sacra- 
ments, he told the cure that he wished to be buried pri- 
vately in his parish church, with no other inscription than 
these words, “ Here lies James, King of Great Britain.” 

lie died in perfect charity with all the world, and espe- 
cially named his son-in-law, the Prince of Orange, and Ihc 
Princess Anne of Denmark, his daughter. 


'Life of James from (he Stuart Papers 


238 


FLOKENCE O’NEILL J OE, 


All this while, the poor queen had sunk down on the 
ground by his bedside. The king said all he could to com- 
fort her, pointing out it was the will of God in this as in 
all other trials. 

The following day Louis of France arrived, alighting at 
the iron gates lest the noise of the coach driving into the 
court should disturb the king. James received him as com- 
posedly as if nothing were the matter. The sight of tho 
queen’s grief was the only thing that disturbed the calm- 
ness with which he was passing through the dark valley of 
the shadow of death ; bade those who were near him lead 
her to her chamber, and then requested that the prayers for 
a soul departing should be read. The queen, worn out by 
grief and watching, went softly round by the back stairs, 
and knelt in a closet, behind the alcove of the bed, where 
she could hear every word and sigh uttered by the dear 
object of a love which for twenty-seven years had been the 
absorbing principle of her existence. The king at last sank 
into a sort of lethargy, giving, for several days, little con- 
sciousness of life, except when prayers were read to him, 
when, by the expression of his countenance and motion of 
his lips, it was plain that he prayed also. 

The sands of life were ebbing fast when King Louis next 
entered the chamber of the dying James ; for when the 
former enquired after his health he neither saw nor heard 
him, and on being roused from his dreary stupor, and told 
the I^ing of France was there, he opened his eyes with a 
painful effort, saying, “ Where is he?” 

“Sire, I am here,” said Louis ; “ I am como to sec how 
you do.” 

“I am going,” said James, “to pay that debt which 
must be paid by kings as well as their meanest subjects. I 
give your Majesty my dying thanks for all your kindness to 


TUE SIEGE OP LIMEEICK. 


239 


me ah(I my afflicted family, and do not doubt of its continu- 
ance, having always found you good and generous.” lie 
then expressed his thanks for the king’s kindness during his 
sickness. 

“ That is, indeed, a small matter,” said Louis ; “but I 
have something to acquaint you with of more importance.” 

As the king spoke thus the attendants began to retire. 

“Let nobody withdraw,” said Louis. “I am come, 
sire, to tell you that whenever it shall please God to call you 
out of this, I will take j'our family under my protection, and 
will recognize your son, the Prince of Wales, as the heir of 
your three realms.” 

As the king spoke these words all present threw them- 
selves at his feet. He was the sole hope of the sorrowful 
court at St. Germains.* 

Louis mingled his tears with those which were shed by 
all around him. 

James feebly strove to raise his arms to embrace his royal 
friend, and strove to speak^ but nothing could be heard 
beyond these words : 

“ I thank God I die with a perfect resignation, and for- 
give all the world, particularly the emperor and the Prince 
of Orange.” 

“ I beg as a last favor,” said James, “ that no funeral 
pomp may be used at my obsequies.” 

“ That is the only favor I cannot grant,” replied Louis. 

“ I entreat you, sire,” said the dying king, “rather to 
employ any money you may feel disposed to expend for that 
I'urposo for the relief of my destitute followers. I recom- 
mend them to your compassionate care, and I beg you, sire, 
no longer to remain in this melancholy place.” 


♦ Life ©f James II., from Stuart Papers. 


240 


FLOEENCE o’NEILL; OE, 


The queen had sent for the prince. She brought him 
herself through the little bed-chamber into that of his dying 
father, that he might return thanks to his protector. The 
young prince knelt down and expressed his gratitude to his 
majesty. 

Louis raised and embraced him, promising to supply his 
father’s place. 

Never, says his son, the Duke of Berwick, was there seen 
more tranquillity, patience, and even joy, than in the feel- 
ings with which he contemplated the approach of death. 

*With much firmness he then took his leave of the 
queen, bidding her restrain her tears. “ Refiect,” he said, 
“lam going to be happy, and forever.” Then he bade her 
write, when he should be no more, to the Princess Anne, to 
assure her of his forgiveness, and to charge her, on his 
blessing, to atone to his brother for the injury she had done 
him. 

The end was nigh, his hands began to shake with a con- 
vulsive motion, the pangs of death came visibly upon him. 

“ I beg your Majesty to withdraw,” said the Bishop of 
Autun to the queen ; “ I am about to pray for a soul in its 
agony. The sight of your anguish w’ill disturb the serenity 
God has shed upon the heart of the king.” 

She consented to tear herself away, but when she kissed 
his hands for the last time,’ her sobs roused the king from 
the lethargy into which nature had sunk. 

“ Why is this ? ” said he, tenderly. “ Are you not flesh 
of my flesh and bone of my bone ? Arc you not part of 
myself? How is it, then, that one part of me should feel 
so ditrercntly to the other ; I in joy, and you in despair ? 
My joy is in the hope I feel that God in His mercy will for- 


* Duke of Berwick’s Memoirs. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


241 


give me my sins and receive me into His beatitude, and you 
are affected for it. I have long sighed for this happy 
moment, and you know it. Well, cease then to lament for 
me ; I will pray for you. Farewell.”* 

It was yet twenty-four hours ere the king died. The 
queen was forbidden again to enter the chamber, though he 
asked for her each time he awoke; and, informed of this, 
‘she implored so passionately once again to see him, promis- 
ing not to say anything to agitato him, that they allowed 
her to approach the bed. 

She struggled to assume a feigned composure, but though 
the film of death was on the eyes of the king, and his ear 
becoming dead to outward sounds, he perceived the grief of 
her soul. 

“ Ho you suffer? ” she enquired. 

“ Yes, because you suffer,” he replied. “I should be 
well content if you were less afflicted, or could take some 
share in my happiness.” 

“ Beg of God,” she said, “ to give me the grace of love 
and perfect resignation to His will.” 

They compelled her to withdraw ; not even her best loved 
friend might approach. She passed the awful interval in 
fasting, watching, and prayer. 

At last the tried and purified spirit of the king had 
passed away, but none durst venture to break the truth to 
the queen except her confessor, and even he shrunk from 
telling her so in direct words, but requested her to join with 
him in prayer for the king. He began with the words : 

“ Subvenite sancti Dei.” 

“0, my God, is it then over,” she exclaimed, throwing 
herself on the ground in an agony of grief, for she knew 
that these words commence the office for a soul departed. • 

• Memoirs ol the Duke of Berwick. 

21 


242 


FLORENCE O NEILL ; OR, 


“ I exhort you, madam,” said Father Keega, “ to resign 
yourself to the will of God, and in token that you do so, say 
Fiat voluntas tua,” 

Fiat,” said the unhappy queen, in obedienee to her 
spiritual direetor. The blow was very hard to bear, for she 
had till the last moment clung to the hope that the king 
would recover. 

A smile was on the dead face of the king ; the bitterness 
of death had long been passed. He had requested that his 
chamber door should be left open, that all who wished might 
freely enter ; and a flock of French and English, of all 
ranks and stations, crowded forward. 

In compliance with the ceremonial their respective posi- 
tions exacted, the royal widow went to offer her homage to 
her boy. “ Sir,” she said, “ I acknowledge you for my 
king, but I hopo you will not forget you arc my son.” 
Then, overpowered by grief, she was carried in a chair from 
the apartment, and from thence to a carriage, which was to 
convey her to the Convent of Chaellot, in the retirement of 
which place she designed to pass the flrst days of her widow- 
hood. One hour after her husband’s death, attended by 
four ladies only, the queen left St. Germains for Chaellot. 

The church of the convent was hung with black, and as 
soon as she neared the convent the bells tolled, and the 
abbess and the community received her at the convent gate. 
In silence Mary Beatrice entered the convent, her hood 
drawn over her face, followed by her ladies, and over- 
whelmed with grief. The nuns gathered round her, no one 
spoke, but the abbess kissed the hem of her robe. Some of 
the sisters embraced her knees, and others kissed her hand, 
but no one uttered a single word ; their tears expressed their 
affliction. 

without a sigh or a tear, the queen walked into the choir. 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


243 


and continued in this stupefaction of grief till one of the sis- 
ters approached, and, kissing her hand, said, in a tone of 
admonition, in the words of the royal Psalmist : 

“ My soul, will you not he subject to God ? ” 

“ Fiat voluntas tua,” replied the queen, in a voice broken 
by sighs. Then advancing towards the choir, she said : 

“ Help me, my sisters, to thank my God for His mercies 
to that blessed spirit who is, I believe, rejoicing in His 
beatitude. Yes, I feel certain of it, in the depth of my 
grief.” She then knelt before the altar, and remained a 
long while in prayer. 

The poor queen had taken no food since the previous 
night, and the abbess, apprehending she would faint, begged 
her to be carried in a chair, but she chose to walk, saying : 

“My blessed Saviour was not carried up the painful 
ascent to Mount Calvary, but walked to the consummation 
of His adorable sacrifice, bearing the burden of His cross 
for our sins, and shall I not imitate His holy example?” 

The abbess and two or three of the nuns followed her to 
her chamber, and begged her to suffer herself to be 
undressed and go to bed ; but she insisted on listening to 
more prayers. She could weep no more ; the fountain of 
her tears was dried up, and its solace denied her. 

She sighed often, writes the nun of Chaellot who pre- 
served the record of this visit of Mary Beatrice, and was 
seized with fits of dying faintness, but listened with great 
devotion to the abbess, who knelt at her feet, and read to 
her appropriate passages from the Holy Scriptures for her 
consolation. Then she begged the community to pray for 
the soul of her husband, saying ; 

“ A soul ought to be very pure that has to appear in the 
presence of God, and wc, alas, sometimes fancy that persons 
are in heaven, when they are suffering the pains of purga- 


244 


FLORENCE o’nEILL ; OR, 


tory.” At this thought the sealed up fountain of her grief 
was opened, and she shed floods of tears. Much she wept 
and much she prayed, but was at last prevailed on to take a 
little nourishment and go to bed, while the nuns returned to 
the choir and sung the Vespers for the Dead. Then the 
Prayers for the Dead were repeated in her chamber, in 
which she joined, repeating the verses of every psalm, for 
she knew them all by heart ; and begged that a prayer for 
the conversion of England might be added, observing that 
for the last twelve years she had been at St. Germains she 
had never omitted that petition in her devotions. 

At seven the queen sent for her almoner, and after she 
and her ladies had joined in their usual prayers, she begged 
the writer of this record to remain with her, for she saw 
that her ladies in waiting and her femme de cliamhre were 
worn out with fatigue and watching, and made them go to 
bed. 

The nun’s record goes on to say that, without pomp or 
noise, for fear of agitating the royal widow, the king’s heart 
was brought to the convent. When the king’s will was 
opened it was found that he had directed his body to be 
buried in Westminster Abbey. It was to await the restora- 
tion in the Church of the Benedictines at Paris, whither it 
was conveyed the Saturday after his death in a hearse, fol- 
lowed by two coaches, in which were the officers of the 
king’s household, his chaplains, and the prior of St. Ger- 
mains ; and the king’s obsequies being duly performed in 
the convent church, the body was left under the hearse, 
covered with a pall, in one of the chapels. One after 
another the hopes of his race faded away, and still the bones 
of James II. awaited burial. 

On the third the queen put on the habit of a widow, and 
while they were thus arraying, writes the nun of Chaellot, 


THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


245 


her Majesty observed that for the rest of her life she should 
never wear anything but black ; she had long since 
renounced all vanities, and worn nothing but what was 
absolutely necessary ; “ and God knows,” she added, “ I did 
not put on decorations except when obliged to do so, or in 
early youth.” 

When her melancholy toilet was ended the ladies were 
permitted to enter to offer their homage, but not a word was 
spoken ; she sat still and motionless, her eyes fixed on 
vacancy. I had the boldness to place the Crucifix where 
her regards were absently directed, and soon her attention 
was centred on that model of patience. After a quarter of 
an hour I told her the carriage had come. She rose, and 
said, “ I have a visit to make before I go and bursting 
into a passion of tears, she said, “ I will go and pay my 
duty to it. I feel it is here, and nothing shall prevent me 
from going to it. It is a relic I have given you, and I must 
be allowed to venerate it.” Covered with her veil, and pre- 
ceded by the nuns, singing the De Profundis, she approached 
the tribune where the heart of her beloved was enshrined in 
a gold and varmeel vase. She clasped her hands, knelt, 
and kissed the urn across the black crape that covered it. 
After a silent prayer she rose, sprinkled it with holy water, 
and turned as if about to retire, but before she had made 
four steps she fell into a fainting fit, which caused us some 
fears for her life. She returned to St. Germains that 
evening. 

We have seen this with our own eyes, adds the nun. Our 
Mother and all the community judged it proper that an 
exact and faithful narrative of the whole should be made, to 
the end that it might be kept as a perpetual memorial in our 
archives, and for those who may come after us. 


246 


FLOEENCE o’nEILL ; OE, 


A little distance from the palace of St. Germains stood a 
chateau ; it was embosomed in a flowery dell ; the grounds 
which extended around it were cultivated with great care 
and taste, and the elegance of its interior was such as to 
betoken the possession of great wealth in its owners. 

A lady about thirty years of age, hut in the prime of 
woman’s beauty, and dressed in the deepest mourning, is 
making her way through the valley to the chateau. Two 
lovely children — a boy of six years old, and a little golden- 
haired girl of three — hasten to meet her, accompanied by a 
person of middle age, who, from love of those children, has 
made herself their nurse. She is plain, very ; not a soft 
line is there in her rugged features ; and yet, in the eyes of 
those little ones,, she is endowed with every perfection. 

Now the beautiful lady has reached the chateau, and she 
wends her way, followed by her little ones, to a pleasant 
room, the windows of which overlook the palace of St. Ger- 
mains, gilded by the beams of the setting sun. 

A gentleman is standing at the window, buried in 
thought, and, touching him on the arm, she says : 

“We have just brought her home; oh, she is very 
wretched,” and her own tears fall fast as she speaks of the 
queen’s visit to Chaellot. 

Reader, the owner of the chateau is Sir Reginald Marshal 
St. John ; the lady is Florence, his wife. 

The children listen, and their eyes are full of tears. Ah, 
the good old king loved little children. They leave our old 
friend Grace, and run to their parents. 

“ When I am a man I will fight for our young king,” 
said the boy, “ as you did, papa, for good King James.” 

“ Yes, my boy,” replied the marshal, proudly patting 
the boy on the head, “ and may God grant his son may be 
more fortunate than his father.” 


TUE SIEGE OF LIMERICK. 


247 


" And I, mamma, will be like you,” lisped the tiny Mary 
Beatrice, clinging to her mother’s dress, “ will be maid of 
honor to his wife ! ” 

And if our tale of Florence please our readers, hereafter 
we may tell of the fortunes of her descendants under the 
last of the Stuart race, gallant Prince Charlie. 








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